


Like Snow

by tyrellis



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous Self-Harm, Depression, Food Issues, Implied/Referenced Attempted Suicide, M/M, Mentioned Past Annie Leonhart/Mikasa Ackerman, Past Character Death, Recovery, Self-Hatred, Sleep Deprivation, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, if that helps, it all sounds very dark and depressing but i feel like it isn't really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrellis/pseuds/tyrellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean had everything planned out: he was sporty, smart, well on his way to a promotion and ready to propose to his boyfriend - only when his boyfriend dies, everything falls out from beneath his feet, and he succumbs again to mental illness.</p><p>It's not till a year later, when his two closest friends start planning their wedding, that Jean meets someone else who understands, and who helps him back on his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the Start

**Author's Note:**

> i am...so sorry?? why am i not updating the two other fics i have going on? bc plot is hard, writing is hard, school is hard, and this has literally been in the works for months so i decided to post part of it bc why not and see how it went.
> 
> basically i'm trash, ik, i'm so sorry?? i'm so sorry
> 
> in other news, as someone who has never experienced such serious depression before, nor the death of a very close loved one, this does not come from a place of intimate experience, only learnt knowledge and online chat. please please PLEASE tell me if something seems terribly inaccurate, ott, ooc etc so i can change or fix it.
> 
> ye idk how many chaps there'll be. i imagine 3, tops. i was going to post this all in a oner but just...decided not to... we'll see how it goes. pls don't kill me. leave feedback if u r so inclined <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a year, yet nothing's changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am...so sorry?? why am i not updating the two other fics i have going on? bc plot is hard, writing is hard, school is hard, and this has literally been in the works for months so i decided to post part of it bc why not and see how it went.  
> basically i'm trash, ik, i'm so sorry?? i'm so sorry  
> in other news, as someone who has never experienced such serious depression before, nor the death of a very close loved one, this does not come from a place of intimate experience, only learnt knowledge and online chat. please please PLEASE tell me if something seems terribly inaccurate, ott, ooc etc so i can change or fix it.  
> ye idk how many chaps there'll be. i imagine 3, tops. i was going to post this all in a oner but just...decided not to... we'll see how it goes. pls don't kill me. leave feedback if u r so inclined <3

_Oh, Miss Believer, my pretty sleeper_  
 _Your twisted mind is like snow on the road_  
 _Your shaking shoulders prove that it's colder_  
 _Inside your head than a winter of death.  
_ **Oh, Ms Believer - Twenty One Pilots**

~

It's Jean's fault. He knows it's his fault, because people can't speak to him for days. He doesn't get to arrange the funeral, only _his_  family. When he goes up to speak, all he can think is, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it should've been me, he deserved to live, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_  and he ends up choking out, "He didn't deserve it. He was the best person I knew."

He doesn't say how much he'll miss him, it's immeasurable. Hands shaking, he touches the frame of the only person he's ever loved.

He knows it's his fault, because _his_  mother tsks as Jean lingers, and he trudges to his second-row seat and he doesn't cry.

It's his fault, because at the reception, when everyone's tanked up and sharing stories round the table, they say, "Remember that Mina girl he was with for a while and that hilarious incident they were both involved in?" They say, "Gosh, that boy was a blessing, always helping everyone out. The world needs more people like him." They say, "We've really lost an angel." And then they say, "Sorry, Jean, did you have something to contribute?"

He's invited to the will reading, only because a good few things were addressed to him. The engagement ring, for one. Their flat, and shared possessions. The car. They all come in and take all of Marco's sole possessions, and Jean's torn between happy and sad to see them go. In the end, he slumps on the couch and stares at the telly as they stagger back and forth between the flat and their cars.

He knows it's his fault, because the news article reads, _Newly Engaged Young Man Killed in Drunk Driving Accident_.

Marco had been wearing the ring for _four hours_.

~

Jean doesn't draw anymore. He doesn't paint, he doesn't colour. He doesn't eat, or think. Days pass and he doesn't wash or shave or clean the flat. He works as a programmer from home, his only companion a rubber duck with sunglasses Marco gave him that he could read his code to. Sometimes all he hears in a day is the sound of his own voice. He doesn't recognise it anymore. It's always hoarse and scratchy and too quiet, repeating sequences of letters and words that get too mixed up in his head. He's glad he bought the flat, or else he doesn't think he'd remember to pay the rent each month. The flat itself might be a mess, clothes, dishes, objects strewn on the ground. Broken things that Jean still cuts his hands and feet on. Blood stains the sink and he always wonders why - doesn't the water clean that stuff up?

Jean sometimes speaks to Connie, or Sasha, or Christa. The former two are his self-proclaimed best friends and therefore have made it their duty to check up on him. He's fine. Decaying, slowly. Not fast enough. They want the opposite, though; ring him at random times to check if he's eaten, or slept, or ask how many packs of cigarettes he's smoked so far. The latter will always come to his place, and try and tidy it up. He doesn't like her touching Marco's old things, though; usually she curls up on the couch and asks him questions, the kind that make both heart and head hurt and too often he ends up doubled over, hands pressed over his eyes, begging her to leave.

She's become more of a therapist than a friend to Jean.

Sometimes Ymir will come over. Emotions like these freak her out, though. Usually she mocks him.

He kicks her out.

Reiner, Bertholdt, Annie... They all tried in the beginning. Jean doesn't remember how many days, weeks, months ago that was, but they tried. Knocked until night, until he pleaded with them to leave. Called him up, waiting till the answer machine, left a message. _Chin up, Jean. We're here for you, Jean, just let us in. Come on, Jean, it's been two months._

They stopped, though. He's just waiting for Connie and Sasha and Christa to give up, too. His parents don't care; haven't since he was seventeen and came out as bi. Apparently such things don't exist.

Jean wishes he didn't exist. Jean wishes Marco was still here.

These days, Jean doesn't really wish at all, though.

~

He wakes at half-three a.m. - when did he fall asleep? Sprawled on his bed, still in his day clothes- night clothes- something, anything, he can't tell.

Bad dreams, awful dreams, and he juts up, scrambles to turn on his lamp, doesn't register the mess as he lunges for his desk and grasps at the pencils that have been waiting there for months for him to use again.

Soft, strong paper, an open canvas. Drawing again is like quenching an old thirst - immediate satisfaction, the slow recension of an old ache. He scrawls and refines and scrubs with a rubber and in the end- a soft, long face; freckles, prominently on cheeks but dotted along the bridge of the nose, decorating the rim of the ear, hidden in dimples; straight nose and gentle eyes; soft dark lips; centre-parted black hair and the softest, most adoring smile-

Jean scrunches the paper up - are tears falling? - and it joins numerous others at his feet. He leaves the room, grasping at whatever surfaces he passes till he finds a pack of cigarettes. His lighter's in his pocket - it was digging into him while he slept - and stepping onto the balcony, Trost is lit up with streetlights and a few cars. He takes out a cigarette, and for a brief second, the flare of his lighter joins those dots of light filling the darkness.

Trost is a big city, and as usual, there are no stars in the sky tonight. The wind is heavy, though - the trees lining the street bend with it, and the clouds move fast enough that every now and again he glimpses the half-moon. Beyond his street is more flats, a park, more flats, a school, a church, shops filling in every empty street. He lives in a nice place. He's only seen it from this angle in months, though.

It's been raining. The roads are shiny and extra-black, the railing is wet and cold, and from this height he can see puddles gathered on flat roofs of shorter buildings. His blood would wash away quickly in this weather; within minutes, hours, it could be like he's never been here at all.

He's wondered many times in the past if this would make it all better. Rightfully lose his own life; maybe, by the power of some god, it would give Marco back and everyone what they all wanted.

It wouldn't, though. He knows this. Connie and Sasha have told him this often enough. His death would do _nothing_.

Jean still thinks it would be better than _being_  nothing.

~

He spends his many days like this, his only companion an inanimate fucking duck. He's lost track of how pathetic this must be. Marco would hate him.

One day, though, is a little different. It starts with a knock to his door. He doesn't hear it at first; entrenched in his bedroom, staring at his ceiling and counting sheep with his eyes wide open.

"Jean?! Hey, Jean, let us in! We have news!"

It's Connie, and presumably Sasha. They have keys, and when he doesn't reply they let themselves in. There's a crunch where they step on broken glass - someone, probably Sasha, lets out a little sigh and then they both enter his bedroom.

He doesn't look. He hears, "Oh, _Jean_ ," from Sasha, then a little pause where they're both shuffling their feet.

Connie tries to engage him first. "Jean, we have some brilliant news! Look!"

He doesn't look.

"Hey, Jean, honestly, we really need you to see this. You've been waiting for this for years," Sasha cajoles.

Years? He honestly has no idea how much time has passed.

He doesn't look.

The bed dips on either side, and hands tug him up till he's against the headboard and the wall opposite fills his vision instead of his white bumpy ceiling.

"Jean, look!"

Hands, blurry at first, catch his attention - as he blinks and they refocus, he intially registers the contrast of Connie's coal black skin to Sasha's dark tan. Connie's hand, behind Sasha's, and his other on her wrist. Only one of Sasha's hands - the other is on Jean's shoulder - but something twinkling, dazzling, on her fourth finger. Gold, and crystal, and infinitely beautiful.

"Oh," he utters. Almost inaudible, but Sasha and Connie squeeze him anyway. There's an expectant pause, and he manages, "Con-congratulations. I..." He feels choked up. Marco's ring had been gold, too, but Jean had chosen sapphires, not crystals. They'd been smaller, anyway. Sasha's gem is big and fancy and Connie must've spent a fortune. "I'm really...happy for you guys."

He sounds anything but.

"We know it's a touchy subject for you," Sasha says, "but...we've been dating for three years, and a few nights ago Connie finally asked me! And so...we were wondering..."

She trails off, and Jean's eyes are back on the wall. Exactly opposite him is a photoframe, but it's empty, the glass shattered. He still feels the same.

Connie takes the lead with confidence, "We want you to come to our engagement party." Jean doesn't react. "And I want you as my best man."

They'd made a pact, back in fourth year, when it had been obvious Connie would never stop being in love with Sasha and Jean would never stop being in love with Marco: best mates, till the end, they'd be each other's best man.

Jean hadn't even had the chance to ask Connie.

"I don't... I don't know..."

"We haven't even chosen a date yet," Sasha rushes in. "Probably in spring, though, and not for at least another year."

Another year... Is Jean going to languish another year away? Has one slipped by already?

"Yeah! Plus, if you're my best man, you're our default for third opinions on cake and flowers and shit," Connie adds.

"Even if you have shitty taste, Jean, we'll at least _consider_  taking your opinions into account."

Jean manages something that isn't a frown, at least.

"Look, we're not asking for a yes or no about the best man thing. Just...please come to this party. It's a week on Saturday, seven p.m. till whenever, down at the Palace Hotel, okay? Only friends and family will be there, I promise, no one will ask any questions. Just show up, have a bit of wine, maybe have a few pics, and you're done. _Please_ , Jean."

He finally looks. Connie's on his right, watching him with dark eyes. He still has his buzzcut, his round face has matured a little, but he's wearing a yellow vest and green khaki shorts and his eyes are still bright. They go ever brighter as Jean faces him.

"I..." How much longer can Jean keep letting people down? Letting his _friends_  down? How much longer will a rubber duck be the thing he talks most to? He doesn't want to go, God no, but...Connie is his best friend. Sasha is his best friend. They've stayed with him all this time, and he doesn't even know what time that is. "I'll have to get a haircut," he mumbles. "And I don't...remember if I have a suit. Will I need to wear a suit?"

Connie's face breaks into a grin. When Jean looks to Sasha, there are tears in her eyes and her smile is so wide and her hand slides from his shoulder to clench his hand.

"Of course!" she chirps. "Haven't you been to the Palace Hotel, Jean? Black-tie only, babe! I'm sure you have a suit; you know, I'll dig it out right now." She gives his hand a squeeze then bounces up.

Connie is still grinning. "Hey, I can call you up a hair appointment right now," he says. "You want the usual pretentious punk-rock undercut?"

He runs a hand through his hair; way overgrown, it feels like straw. "Punk-rock," he repeats. "Yeah."

So Connie calls up some barber shop and plans his life for him. Sasha reappears within minutes, holding a crumpled black suit with silk lapels and strips down the outer edges of the trousers.

Jean only ever had one suit, and you can't not wear formal wear to a funeral. He wants to say no, take it back, Sasha, I'll wear something else- He has nothing else, though, he has _nothing_ , so he nods.

"This is brilliant," Sasha gushes. "Oh, you have a light green shirt... You don't have to wear a tie, I mean, I know it's _black-tie_  but you don't _have_  to wear a tie. If you do, you have this cute skinny black one that'll look good, and I'll take your nice shoes down to the shop to get them cleaned up a little, okay?"

He nods helplessly along.

"Here, you've got an appointment in two days, at half one, alright? I'll write it down and give me your phone so I can put in a reminder, yeah?" Connie asks, and Jean wordlessly does so.

"Hey, I'll lay out an outfit you can wear there, too, a lot of your clothes aren't very clean..." Sasha's voice wavers, but she carries on regardless. "Jeans, punk rock shirt for your punk rock hair, and Converse, yeah?"

"...Yeah." So she springs up again and shuffles around in his wardrobe.

"Look, why don't I get you a dentist appointment too, right? Just get it all done. Why don't you go have a shower now, yeah?" Connie asks, standing and urging Jean up, too.

"I...mean, sure."

And he's forced from his room into the bathroom, and they both see blood on the sink and for a moment Connie completely freezes up-

"You don't need that razor, do you?" he asks quietly.

"I..." Jean doesn't know what to say. He's never used it like that, but how would Connie know? "No, I don't. I mean, I need to shave-"

"I can help with that," Connie determines, grabbing the razor from the shower and backing out. "Just clean up for now."

The door shuts and Jean strips automatically. His flat feels more alive that it has in who knows how long, Sasha and Connie clunking about in ways they never bothered to before. He doesn't think about it, though, distracted by the feeling of hot water surrounding him, washing him clean of sweat and tears and maybe even blood. He sees red wash down the drain but he's pretty sure it's just his feet.

After ten minutes, he finally grabs the soap and washes himself. It's bizarre, to be squeaky clean and to run his hands over his body - it doesn't feel like it used to. He's tall, and he was always lean but strong. He ran, and cycled, and maybe got into a couple fights a week; he was one of the best athletes at school, at university, at the office. He and Marco used to get up at six a.m. for morning runs.

Now...skin, bone, weak flesh. He's lost all definition, and every muscle feels tired as he scrubs himself. He's not lanky, anymore; he's skinny, worn down, brittle.

He looks at the mirror as he dries himself. It's dirty, of course, but he can still see his own ribs and concave stomach; his hips jut unnaturally, his knees are knobbly, his eyes are gaunt and his cheekbones too obvious.

He barely looks alive.

He stops looking and dries himself; he exits only wearing a towel, but somehow Sasha already has a pair of trackies, a t-shirt, and a big hoodie for him to wear. She even throws a pair of blue boxers in his face, and he ghosts a smile for half a second.

When he gets his phone back, he has a new set of reminders: a dentist appointment, for eleven, the same day as his hair one; days set to do his laundry, and ironing, and a day when apparently Christa and Ymir are going to come see him; Connie and Sasha's engagement party, a week and a half from now - apparently, it's a Wednesday in July.

Jean proposed to Marco on his birthday. He thought it'd be funny, to have it all disguised as birthday celebrations for his boyfriend then, _surprise!_ , it was all to get engaged.

For four hours.

Connie and Sasha have been engaged for three days; they explain to him as they clear his kitchen up a little. He sits at the table and picks at an omelette, one of his favourite foods.

It's a cute story, and typical of the sometimes unorthodox pair: Connie had a ring for ages, and Sasha was going to ask Connie herself if he didn't hurry up, and eventually they were watching Shaun of the Dead during a horror movie marathon - Sasha was in the middle of gulping down popcorn, apparently - when Connie found the ring and shoved it in Sasha's face with it, "Marry me, babe."

Her reply had been, "Hang on, idiot, this is my favourite scene!"

And now, here they sit, eating omelettes with Jean, trying to clear the debris of his life whilst they successfully navigate their own.

"Look, babe, we'll be back in a few days, okay? We're still preparing for the party, though!" Sasha says at the front door after a few hours, kissing his cheeks and hands tight around his own.

"Okay."

"Thanks so much, Jean," Connie says. "You don't know how much it means to be that you're coming to this thing. _Please_  don't forget everything we set up for you, okay? Your alarms are set, you've got your reminders, the appointments are done, and then you're coming, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Love you, mate. See you soon." Connie pats his shoulder, and Sasha squeezes him in a hug, and then the door slams shut.

It's six p.m. and his fingers are twitching. With a cigarette in one hand and a biro pen in the other, he sits down at his desk, and this time, when he draws, it's of the city cathedral, light shining through the stained glass windows, and two figures standing before it, hands entwined between them. The girl has long auburn hair and a white dress; the boy is still shorter than her, and wears the fanciest suit Jean's ever seen. They gaze at each other, in the dappled light, and forever in this one moment they are in love.

Jean keeps it.

~

He must work on auto-pilot, because he does everything Connie and Sasha planned for him. His phone charges whenever it's not being used, and it bleeps annoyingly until he checks it for what he has to do. He does laundry. He irons. He makes his own meal a couple times. The dentist cautions him about the state of his teeth, and he starts brushing them daily again. The first few times he spits blood - a little more doesn't matter. Since Connie shaved him, he hasn't really needed to himself. He was always shitty at growing facial hair, but it's become routine for him to scrape along his jaw a few times a week to make sure he's clean-shaven.

He finally has his punk rock hair style back. The barber had tutted loudly when Jean had shown up in his skinny jeans that were still a little baggy and his black t-shirt, his hair an overgrown mess, but with a little hairwashing and cutting it's returned to the way it once was. It makes him feel marginally more in control of his life.

Christa and Ymir do come down on the Tuesday after his haircut and before Connie and Sasha's party. Christa is very pretty: she wears a flowy blue skirt and a pastel blouse tucked in, and Ymir's in dark jeans and a holey white vest with what she calls 'tasteful side-boob'.

"So," Christa says once she's settled on the couch with some tea, "Connie and Sasha say you're going to be at the party on Saturday!"

Even Ymir smiles.

"Yeah," he falters a little. "I even have a suit ready."

Christa looks overjoyed. "Your hair looks great, too," she compliments. "It's brilliant, isn't it? We've all been waiting for this since primary school, I bet."

Jean nods. "Yeah... I always thought they'd, uh...they'd be together forever." Words are difficult to choose; stringing them into conversational sentences is harder. "I, uh... They seem to be the same brand of idiocy and eccentricity, don't they...?"

"If you mean they're both bloody maniacs, then yeah, I agree," Ymir says. Her brows are quirked a little but the edges of her mouth are soft, and she looks more comfortable in Jean's presence than she has in months. Over a year, Jean now knows. "It's about time they married." Shooting a catty grin at her girlfriend, she says, "Hey, Christa, us next, alright?"

"Ymir, I've been asking for three months already," Christa sighs. "You keep telling me to wait."

Ymir scoffs. "Yeah, well, I had a bet with Reiner that Consash would get engaged first, alright? I won twenty quid, Christa!"

"Is that why you bought me those orchids the other day?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was because you are the light of my life and I was feeling spontaneously romantic?"

"Yes, actually," Christa replies and plops a kiss on Ymir's nose. Ymir, who always pretends to be so cool and badass, turns bright red, and Jean can't help but smile a little at the show of adoration before him.

"So, Jean, you won't believe who came into our cafe..."

Christa and Ymir regale Jean with the tales of their little cafe downtown - a cosy place that Christa manages and Ymir runs the till at, always busy for its baked goods and excellent customer service. Sasha and Connie have promised to order their cake from it. Ymir makes them all tea at regular intervals and at some point Christa goes out to buy food, and when she returns she makes pasta for them and he actually tastes it and when they leave they both hug him goodbye, even Ymir, and promise to see him on Saturday.

That night, he draws two girls sitting in a pink cafe, sharing a milkshake with their ankles hooked beneath the table.

The taller girl has dark skin and freckles, and it's shitty watercolour, and Jean tears it up.

~

On Saturday, the sun's out, and when Jean wakes at five a.m. he doesn't roll over back to sleep, but gets up, cigarettes and lighter in tow, to stand as the sun gradually climbs into the sky. Still July, still hot, and Jean remembers only how over a year ago it'd just started getting warm, and Marco had been wanting to go shopping for summer clothes, and all the trees and flowers along this street were in bloom, green and red and pink decorating every inch of grass.

Jean has missed the seasons passing. Summer ended in August without him looking; autumn passed and the plants crumpled up; Jean only registered winter because he was always frozen; and it lasted until March or April, he doesn't know, and maybe spring was tentative in its existence. It's summer again, and Trost is probably at the hottest it'll be all year.

There is a taxi ordered for quarter to six for Jean. The Palace Hotel is in the nice part of the city, and coincidentally, that's where Jean lives, so it's only a ten-minute drive. Connie and Sasha want him there early, though. He thinks they just want to keep an eye on him.

He knows they're right to, and he doesn't begrudge them it. He knows he owes them a lot. He just...can't summon the energy to be appropriately grateful.

He stares at the rising sun until the sky is blue and ruffled by clouds; it's nine a.m., and he goes through what's now become a routine to him. Shower, brush his teeth, shave and check his hair. He wanders to his kitchen, but he has no appetite. Feels skin and bone and constant exhaustion; remembers muscle, lean and strong, and boundless energy.

He'll never get that back.

He goes to his balcony, and has another cigarette.

When he comes back inside, the sun has reached its peak, and, having nothing better to do, he sits cross-legged in front of his laptop and hammers out code for four hours. He mumbles it all back to his duck, which takes another hour, and at that point it feels close enough to when he has to leave to get ready.

The suit feels unnatural on him, unfamiliar; it's too big, and looking in the mirror it's too obvious. The green shirt he wears used to complement his skin tone perfectly, but now they're just different shades of the same colour and he looks frail, small, sick. He's lucky Sasha thought to leave out a belt for him, because the trousers fall down instantly and he has to go the the last hole of the belt to keep them up.

_Sick, sick, sick_.

The crack of things breaking beneath his shoes is louder than he ever noticed; maybe because he _is_  wearing shoes. When he reaches down to inspect his floor, he cuts his fingers within seconds, and with a sigh withdraws back to the bathroom with the bloody sink to wipe more blood from his palms. He never realised how dangerous his own home had become.

So he treads back to the main room once his hands are dried; they're shaking, and when he sits down he flattens his palms against the tabletop but he can see every tremour that runs through his fingers, the shudders in his shoulders, leg bouncing up and down. He settles on watching the clock tick forward - the glass of it is smashed, everything's smashed, but he can't remember how it all happened or who did it or what came next.

When the taxi arrives, his mobile rings twice, and they hang up before he can get it - so he makes sure he's got his keys and phone before leaving his flat for the first time in a long long time. Stepping out, the air tastes different than before - Trost is a big industry city, and even here, in the nice bit, it's a little dirty. The heat only aggravates it, and there's a stagnancy different to within his home. This one is renewed, again and again, as the wind sweeps it along.

Jean doesn't take the lift. He trips down seven sets of stairs via the fire escape, hopping off the bottom ladder with a lack of agility that frightens him. The taxi driver is waiting, and when Jean gets inside the driver takes off straight away for the hotel. He tries to engage Jean a few times, but between his awkward answers and stuttered words he gives up, and allows Jean five minutes of silence.

The guy was pre-paid, too, but Jean still scrabbles in his wallet for some change. A couple pound coins, since Jean is such a shit customer. A shit everything, really.

He's here, though, in front of the Palace Hotel. It spreads over a block, with stairs leading up to different entrances every few metres. Connie and Sasha have paid for the bottom floor of the entrance on the far right, so Jean offers his name to the boy in a suit standing at the door and is escorted inside.

High-ceilinged, dark paneled walls, shiny wooden floor; the lighting is dim and rouge, and immediately to his left is an open door, showing a slice of the room behind it. There's a bar tucked into the corner, and an ice bucket filled with bottles of what looks like champagne. He's staring for two seconds before familiar hands clamp around his waist and shoulders.

"Jean!" Sasha cries. "You honestly came!"

Yeah, he did. He doesn't know where to put his hands, and his heart is thumping because he's scared he's going to do something wrong, but he's here. He's outside. He's with friends.

"Yeah," he says.

Connie's wrapped himself around Jean's back. "You look great, man! You look really punk rock but in a civilised way, you know?!"

"Sure," he replies. "...Thanks."

"Aw, this is going to be brilliant!" Sasha says, grin splitting her face in two and Jean wonders how he could possibly have this effect on her, or on Connie. Jean's pretty sure he basically killed one of their best friends, and then fucked himself up over it, for a year, but here they are, embracing him and findng such joy in his presence like he's something precious.

He hasn't felt precious for...at least over a year.

It took him a very long time to feel that, anyway.

"Oh, God, I think I can see my mum and dad! Jean, hold my hand!"

"Uh, Sasha has them...?"

"Ugh, Sash, give him here, he's _my_  best man."

"Shut up Conman, he's _my_  best mate, also he used to paint my nails when I was sad so we obviously have the strongest bond."

"Sasha please they're almost up the steps at least _one_  hand!"

She sighs and lets go, but Connie grabs him immediately and Jean is sandwiched between his best friends.

He really hopes everyone doesn't think they're in a polyamorous relationship.

He's shaking though, again, as Connie's parents enter. The father is short, like his son, but his wife is elegant and tall and was always lovely to Jean. He remembers the first time she kissed his cheek, and it was so bizarre being treated like that by a maternal figure. He hasn't seen her since...months. A year. Or more.

Jean doesn't remember time before _this_  time, really.

The beautiful smiles on their faces turn quickly to surprise - Connie's mum's mouth drops open, and his dad's eyebrows jump up his forehead.

" _Jean_?" she breathes.

"...Hi, Mrs Springer."

"Oh, darling, I always said you could call me Mary," she croons, reaching a hand out to his shoulder. He's shrinking, feels himself pulling back, and Sasha and Connie's hands are too hot and constrictive on his own, and hurt flashes briefly in Mary's downturned lips before the smile reappears full force and she straightens up. "It's wonderful to see you out again."

Is it?

"...Thanks."

"Jean," his dad - Kevin, maybe? - greets him, nodding. "Great to see you, buddy."

"You, too."

And the floodgates have opened.

After the Springer couple comes the Brauses, including Sasha's hoard of little brothers, and then extended relations start coming in, and Jean's squashed between his friends and some of these people remember him and ask questions and some don't and ask questions and his hands are shaking so much and Connie and Sasha are holding them so tight and sweat is dripping down his neck as another few arrive in and do the rounds. They look at Jean, skinny and small and scared in a suit too big for him and they ask questions, _who is he? Why's he here? This is Jean? You're Jean?_

And then, thank _Christ_ , Ymir and Christa show up. They're dazzling, of course. Ymir's in a skinny black suit that shows off her legs and her cleavage - because who even wears shirts these days - and Christa's in a long navy dress with glitter bursts across it, and they're wrapped around each other as they come in.

"Hey everyone!" Christa calls as they push through the growing throng towards them. "You look beautiful, Sasha, I'm so happy for you two!"

"You look less like a monkey than usual, Springer, good job," Ymir compliments.

Sasha's in red, with a low neck and a floaty skirt, and she positively beams. Jean leans a little more towards her.

"And you really did get Kirschtein out the house!" Ymir adds. Her tone's a little teasing, but her eyes are soft and she reaches towards his and Connie's entwined hands. Connie lets go, and Ymir loops her arm through Jean's free one. "C'mon, loser, we're going to get crunk."

Christa does a similar intervention, and with a few kisses from his other friends, he's pulled by Ymir and Christa towards the bar.

The shakes ease infinitesimally.

"Champagne, ladies? Sir?" A waiter balancing champagne flutes on a tray intercepts them and smiles.

"Love it," Ymir says, taking one and immediately passing it to Christa, who smiles. Another, and passes it to Jean. The liquid ripples with his shakes. Ymir takes her own, nods in thanks, and takes a long sip. "Brilliant."

"Getting bevved already?" Christa comments.

"You know me, baby!" Casting a glance in his direction, she adds, "Drink up, Jean-bo. This is the expensive shit."

He does so, and all he registers is the faint burn down his throat, so he keeps drinking, if only for something to do. People press in on all sides, and the hand raising the flute sometimes shakes so badly Ymir's hand has to dash out to stabilise it. He hears his breathing above the elevated noise; Ymir and Christa are chattering to each other on either side of him, pausing sometimes to greet a familiar face.

They've made their way to a standing board covered in photos, and Jean finds himself in many of them. Ymir howls at all the ridiculous photos - of which, of course, there are many - whilst Christa is smiling, eyes shiny. Jean stares at his old captured self: young and fit, grinning in some, scowling in others, and fast asleep in all the photos where he's drunk. There are pictures even from when they were kids, with Connie and Jean playing in the mud at four years old, then with Sasha at nine, then with their Motorola Razr flip phones at eleven, acting cool because they were in secondary school. Together, all dressed up for dancing, Connie and Sasha on his sides because they were too afraid to admit they thought they were cute. Hanging out on the grass in the sun with Reiner, Bertholdt, Annie, dancing in the dark with Ymir and Christa...

A group photo, on their last day of secondary, in their scrawled-on shirts and goodbye gifts; Sasha and Connie are wrapped around each other, and Reiner and Bertl and Annie form a clump in the centre, then Jean's got his arm round Marco, _God_ , he was such an arrogant asshole, but Marco's smiling all sweet at the camera, the way he smiled at everyone...

Hands shaking, he looks at more. Him and Marco are in so many photos. They were best friends for years, like Sasha and Connie, they just fell in love, too. They went to different uni's, but Jean and Sasha graduated together, and another picture shows Marco and Connie at their graduation, pointing and laughing.

The lump in Jean's throat is unbearable.

More photos, more friends, more scenes with Marco...

Jean shifts his gaze away, desperate to leave, but instead he sees a small table set up with a mahogany-framed picture set with some candles and a card saying something like, ' _R.I.P. Here in our hearts._

Jean doesn't read it. He stumbles back - _pathetic_  - doesn't fall only because Ymir and Christa are there to catch him - _pathetic_  - and his champagne flute is smashed on the floor. Just like everything else Jean owns.

Some people gasp and retreat; Ymir sighs and Christa clutches his arm; a voice he vaguely recognises says, "Is that Jean?" and he struggles to get out, get out, get out-

Ymir and Christa are right behind him, he's not strong enough to shake them off anymore, his eyes are down and burning and he thinks, _Here in our hearts, shut up, he's gone, he's left, he's not here anywhere anymore, he's not here-_

And then he registers someone yelling, and a warm body against his, and something warm on his chest.

"...What?"

" _What_? What the fuck are you doing?!" And a hot hand pushes him back.

He hears Ymir yell, "Hey, step off him, asshole, let us through!"

"Shut up!" the guy shouts back. "This tosser knocked over my drink and didn't even fucking apologise!"

Jean looks up. It's a guy, maybe his age, tan-skinned, with shaggy brown hair, turquoise eyes, and full lips; shorter than Jean by a few inches, but broader besides, especially since Jean's become so skinny. His shirt is pale blue and soaked; his champagne flute is empty in his hand. He's flanked by a beautiful black-haired girl in a matching pale blue dress and a short blond boy with a pale blue tie.

He opens his mouth to speak, though God knows what- then he hears, "Hey, Christa, was that Jean?"

So he squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head. "Sorry," he mumbles, then two people are grabbing at him.

"Oh, Jean, did you find the Marco tribute-"

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry, we should've warned you-"

"We wanted to ask you if you'd like it-"

"We knew you wouldn't agree to come out for anything but the party though-"

Sasha and Connie, holding hands with each other and him, silence at exactly the same time. Their heads turn in sync to the boy.

"Did you spill something already, Eren?" Connie laughs. "Oi, waiter, can we get another?"

"Hey, Eren!" Sasha smiles. "Mikasa, Armin. You all look great. I'm glad you could come out."

Wen Jean looks again, the boy's staring at him strangely, and he asks, "This is Jean?"

Sasha and Connie must've said something. He wonders what.

"Yeah," Connie says.

"...Oh." Eren pauses. "He spilt my drink."

"Of course he did." Connie detaches from his fiancee to pat Eren on the back. "Guys, this is Jean Kirschtein, my best mate. Jean, this is Eren Jaeger, Armin Arlert, and Mikasa Ackerman. They moved into the flat next door to us; and Mikasa and Sasha do yoga together so we've all become close mates."

"Ah," Jean says. He's still surrounded by people, he hasn't room to breathe; he says, "You never told me about them."

They both look pained, and Sasha tries, "Babe, you never... There wasn't really _time_..."

Jean chokes out, "I think I need to go outside for a moment."

Brief quiet and frantic nodding. All hands let go of Jean, since they're only a few paces from the door; Eren says, "I'm coming too."

They settle on the low wall at the bottom of the steps. It's a nice night; only half seven or so and the sun's shining, filtering through the leaves that shelter the hotel. The other guy looks almost resplendent - his skin is suited to sun, and in his eyes are colours that shouldn't possibly exist together twinkling in the light, and his hair is ruffled by the wind.

"So, Jean Kirschtein," Eren says. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," Jean replies. "Eren Jaeger... Sorry about your, uh, your drink, a-and your shirt. By the way."

"Yeah, whatever. It was bloody a hundred quid, though, I bought it to match with Mikasa and Armin."

"Mikasa...?" Jean recalls the beauty standing beside Eren. "She's really pretty... I'd like to talk to them more."

It's the first thought that springs to mind, but Eren leaps up and says, "Sorry?"

"What? I just said...I think she's really pretty. Ar-Armin was, too. Both of them were really..."

He gets a punch to the face. He doesn't register it at first, but then he's on his feet and his fists are up and this boy, this Eren Jaeger, is spitting, "That's my bloody sister and her _boyfriend_ , my best mate, you're talking about, asshole!"

"How the fuck was I supposed to know?" Jean demands, incensed and trying to punch back.

"Fuck, first you fuck up my outfit, then you try and chat up my friends?" He throws another punch, and Jean barely dodges, stumbling to the right and getting caught up on his own dizzy feet.

"I wasn't chatting anyone up!" he protests. "Christ, stop making this into something else!" He lashes out with his foot, and catches Eren's shin, and normally his body would be too tired and weak but this argument has invigorated him, in a way he hasn't been for a year, and with adrenaline pumping through his veins he follows up with a punch to Eren's cheek.

" _Me_?! You're the one who thinks my friends are hot!"

"Shut up! Who cares? It doesn't mean anything!"

The guy punches him again, straight in the stomach, and while he's doubled over he sweeps Jean's feet, so he's on the ground, dazed, and watching the clouds drift across the sky.

" _Jean_?"

He's smiling.

"Oh, my God, Eren, what did you _do_?"

Strong hands pull him up in seconds; he sees Annie in front of Eren, delivering a hard slap that has him grabbing the wall for balance.

He hasn't felt anything like this in so long, he...

"I haven't seen him smile in months, holy crap!"

"Jean? Hey, Jean." He looks up, then cranes his neck; Bertl's got a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes are soft and concerned at the same time. "Are you alright?"

Is he...?

"Yeah, I..." He glances back to Eren, who's now looking bashful, then up the steps, to the party inside, and remembers why he's out here anyway. He feels cold too quickly, ice in his veins, and so easily does he go back to who he was before, weak and small and scared. "No... They have a-a... They have a memorial for M-Marco inside, and I...had to leave..."

Reiner's hand is on his other shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jean," and his voice is _painfully_  sincere, as is the squeeze. "Why's Eren out with you?"

Eren snides, "He thinks Armin and Mikasa are cute."

"... _Everyone_  does," Annie deadpans. "You don't fucking hit men when they like something, Eren, or do you still follow the if-they're-mean-to-you-they-like-you philosophy?"

Eren's cheeks go pink, not that it's noticeable; Jean's feet scuff the ground, and his fingers are trembling.

"Don't be a bitch, Eren," Reiner advises him.

"Alright, shut up, oh my God," Eren mutters. He looks straight at Jean, holding out a hand. "Mate, I'm sorry for being a dick. I'm just in a shitty mood. Yeah?"

"Alright," Jean mumbles, and holds out his hand to shake. They do so, but not before everyone sees the red cut across his palm from where he sliced it that morning; Annie in her short lilac dress ascends the stairs immediately; Bertl lets out a very shaky breath; and Reiner's grip gets evermore tighter. Eren shakes his hand, almost carefully, before releasing it.

"...Why don't we all go inside," Reiner suggests, and herds them up the steps and back into the fray. Heart pounding, Jean is properly introduced to Mikasa and Armin, and they both apologise for Eren's behaviour. They talk for a time; Eren's interesting, Mikasa's incredible, and Armin's smart, and he listens to their discussions with ease. He finds Ymir and Christa eventually, though, and apologises to Sasha and Connie for causing a scene, and endures the rest of the night with a neverending supply of champagne and one of his closest friends always with him, and yes, it's pathetic, but he's _finally_  out the flat and by the end of the night he can go to the tribute to Marco and smile, even if it's small and watery and awkward.

Jean leaves remembering Marco, but he does not forget Eren.

~

It turns out he doesn't get much of a chance to. On the morning after the Sasha and Connie's do, Jean's awake at one p.m. and thrashing out code on his laptop. The duck watches him through it's black sunglasses, and the buzz of telly in the background stirs him on. His phone is charging from is laptop, and the second it buzzes his fingers stop skittering across the keyboard.

Not many people ever text him, these days.

From Unknown: _hey jean, it's eren. sorry for being a tool on sat, got ur # off conman. figured we could meet up @ some pt nd actually talk? x_

Jean plugs his contact as _Eren J (tool)_ , and replies, backspacing and correcting all the mistakes he makes, _It's okay. Wasn't in the best mood either. Am free at any time. x_

When he drops his phone, it lands with a thunk; and then it buzzes again.

_K. What abt wed 1pm @ christa's place?? x_

_That's fine._

Remembering Connie and Sasha's intervention, he puts in a reminder, sets an alarm, and heaves himself up to pick an outfit.

He doesn't register the crunch beneath his feet as he walks, or any dampness, or the clothes. He goes to his wardrobe and sees it in chaos, hangers empty with all sorts of clothes tangled in a heap at the bottom.

He tugs at some blue denim still on a hanger; clean, for once. Finding a decent top is harder, and he ends up with a navy t-shirt with some band name scribbled on the front. He dumps these in a pile on top of a chair, adds boxers and socks, and tops it off with a jacket, just in case.

Then he trawls back to his laptop, lies back against the couch, and thinks.

Eren Jaeger did make him smile yesterday. Was it Eren? Was it being in a fight again? He used to fight so much; Marco hated it. Eren was so presumptuous and self-righteous, so defensive of his perfectly-capable friends, yet so quick to work things out with Jean. He seemed planted in good stead: he looked good, with good friends, and he'd been talking about his job as a superintendent for the police, and his charity work besides, and he was determined of his own convictions and values.

And his values were...respectable.

Jean can't comprehend it.

He wasn't happy last night: panicked, scared, lost... Yet, in those few seconds where he was on the ground, on his feet and trying to fight, Eren's unrestrained fury had given him _life_ , and he'd been feeling dead since June 16th of last year.

He hasn't had the urge to fight in so long; it must be something about _Eren_. Not Armin, who spent a good hour describing his job as a lawyer to Jean last night, or Mikasa, who was not only incredibly beautiful but a skilled fighter and renowned athlete - but Eren, who shoved Jean and punched him and pushed him to the ground.

Was it the violence? Was it...someone not giving a fuck about how fucked up he was? Someone being angry at him, not because he drove while drunk, but because he admired their close friends? Something so trivial...it was _bizarre_.

Jean sits like this for hours, turning possibilities over in his mind, and by the time it's dark he hasn't eaten a thing and his laptop's fallen asleep.

He codes till three a.m., and speaks to his duck till half four, and for once, sleep comes easy.

~

Sasha and Connie come over on Monday. They let themselves in; he's sitting at his laptop, hands cold over the keyboard. The screen is blank, and his eyes staring, and Sasha sighs when she steps on glass.

"Jean," she says, and he doesn't turn. "C'mon, babe, let's go sit on the sofa."

It's a mess, but he lets himself be tugged up and onto the couch, wedged between her and Connie as so often he is.

"Wasn't Saturday brilliant, babe?"

He plucks at some threads on his jeans. "Yeah," he breathes.

"What did you think?" Connie asks.

"It was good."

"Meet anyone you like?"

Jean's hand pauses, and his fingers clamp round his knees. "Why do you ask?"

"We just want to know, babe."

"...Yeah. Y-yeah, uh, Mikasa...was really cool. Um, and Armin was, too." He hesitates. "Eren was... He was...something."

"'Something'," Connie laughs, and Jean turns his head at the sound. "Yeah, Eren's _something_ , alright. You like him?"

"He punched me."

"Yeah! He does that to a lot of us, don't worry about it."

"He's a little... I mean, he's a bit...intense." Another pause, then quietly, "Isn't he?"

"Sure is," Sasha agrees. "Intense is basically his middle name."

Jean hums.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

Connie's looking him straight in the eyes, maybe with concern; Jean's always been honest. "Not really."

Sasha sighs again. "Is it because of the tribute?"

"No, that was-" Jean's _honest_. "Yeah, a little. But- _yeah_. Eren kind of- knocked me off-guard, a-and all the people.." A shudder sweeps through him; he fails to suppress it, and Connie's hand is on his shoulder in seconds.

"It was...nice, though, being outside? Wasn't it?"

The sky above the trees; the boy at the door, smiling at him as he showed Jean inside; wearing a stiff suit and an old shirt; and all those _people_...

"Yeah... Some of it, yeah."

"Hey, it's a step in the right direction," Connie says, and grins. "Eren asked me for you digits, mate, hope you're not mad I gave them over."

"Y-yeah... He texted me."

"What'd he say?"

"Apologised, again. Asked me to..." Jean frowns. "Asked to meet up. Wednesday, at Christa's, for lunch."

"Huh."

"Maybe he likes you too, Jean," Sasha teases, her eyes bright as she curls her fingers round his. They're trembling, _likes you too_ , but he tries so hard not to think of what she means by it. "It'll be fun, though. Eren's fun."

Jean just stares at their hands. Sasha's ring is twinkling, and her nails aren't chipped, and they're wrapped so warmly around his.

"...He's alright."

They beam at him.

They chatter a while more; Jean's distracted by the way the light slowly filters in and out of the room; and when they leave, they drop kisses and _see you soon's_ and shoulder touches and he's left alone again.

_Likes you too_. Jean tries _so hard_  to not think about it.

But he can't stop thinking about it.

~

He's still thinking about it two days later. The alarm wakes him up, and he goes through his routine, and he stares at the blood on the sink again and the razor in the shower and wonders if what Connie had been thinking was right, and he's just forgotten, or is _going_  to be right, and Jean's just going to make a mistake.

Today he does notice broken things on the floor, and takes care to avoid them; he scrubs every inch of himself, and checks his hair in the mirror. He's disappointed by the way he has to wrap a belt right round his hips to hold up supposedly skinny jeans, and how the top droops against his figure. He once had so much to be proud of.

Today, he wakes at seven and is ready for nine, and he stands awkwardly on his balcony for a good hour and a half, chain-smoking and people-watching, before catching the bus to Christa's place. He sits in silence, ignoring the other passengers, and watches the scenery zip pass; his fists are clenched into the fabric of his jeans to hide the trembling, and his heart pounds for the entire trip.

He's five minutes early, and when he enters the cafe, Ymir calls out to him and smiles from the till and points to some windowside armchairs; he takes his seat, and taps his foot.

_Likes you too_. Jean doesn't _even_  like him. They spoke briefly; fought for longer; and Jean had been so unhinged by the Marco tribute that he doubts his actions were anything rational.

"You alright?" Eren collapses into the armchair opposite, reaching out to clasp Jean's shoulder. He shrinks back automatically, eyes down to miss Eren's expression, and nods.

"You want to order something?" he asks. There's a tiny menu on the table, and Eren grabs it and takes a look. Jean already knows what's on it.

"Alright," Eren mutters, jumping up. "You want something?"

"Just a- just- I mean, I can pay, I-"

"Naw, on me."

"Oh, right..." Jean knows the menu, but he's forgotten his order. Lost, he ducks his head, bites his lip, and doesn't continue.

A distant voice says, "Oi, Jaeger, it's alright, get over here," and when Jean looks up, Eren's in the queue. People smile at him, and wave, or nod a little and bestow him with gaze of appreciation: and Jean sees the uniform that Eren wears, complete with badges and trimmings, and considers his own inadequate gear. He feels so much _less_ , probably because he is. People part ways for Eren; they smile agreeably with him and make jokes with him; they congratulate him, thank him, wish him well.

People say _Is that Jean?_  because the last time they saw him, he'd been lost over his fiancé's death.

He still is.

In minutes, Eren returns, balancing two drinks and two plates on a tray. Jean half-stands to help, but Eren places them down with ease, and feeling foolish, Jean sits again. Eren grins as he does the same, picking up a wide mug and saying, "Caramel macchiato with vanilla flavouring for you, skinny latte for me." Jean raises his eyebrows. "Mikasa's always on my dick about staying healthy, so. The little things, you know."

Jean shrugs, because he doesn't know, but instead takes his coffee and wanders how Ymir could possibly remember his order. _He_  didn't, but the sweet smell of it brings back memories like opening a floodgate, and he has to look away. Eren's got a triple chocolate chip muffin - _healthy_  much - but there's also an empire biscuit, sitting alone now the tray's been ditched against the wall.

Eren catches him staring, and says, "For you." Jean makes no move. "Yeah?" Jean pulls it to his side, picks at it, and sips instead at his coffee.The taste overwhelms him for a second - so familiar, yet so distant, tied to everything he once loved and comforting and horrific at once. He drinks it anyway, thinking of dates and not-dates here with Marco, legs tangled beneath the table, hands framing faces, and loving gazes.

But his eyes burn, so he stops thinking about those, and concentrates on whatever Eren's saying.

"...know we didn't start off great, but Sash and Con always go on about you and I reckon we should have a go at this whole mates business. I have work at the station, and I get night patrols sometimes, but we can hang out during lunches and on some evenings; Mikasa and Armin would love to have you round." He's so eager, eyes shining and lips pulled in a smile. It suits him, to be happy and relaxed: his messy hair matches it, and his smile settles right on his tan skin, and his eyes are incredible, Jean wishes they weren't but they are, bright turquoise and gold and they're all lit up, all focused on _him_.

_Likes you too_.

Jean doesn't like him, though. He doesn't really like anything, these days.

Eren's watching him.

He sets down his coffee, half done, and says, "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I... I mean, I think... _yeah_."

"That's all you can say to my heartfelt apology?"

"It- it didn't feel very heartfelt. You derailed and started talking about when we could hang out... Not exactly grade-A apology material."

Eren's eyes are full of amazement and he grins, wide, predatory, says, "So you _were_  listening, huh. Maybe seeing you more was more important to me that actually apologising. Which I've already done. Twice."

"Those _barely_  count." Jean's abandoned his drink, instead leaning forward on his elbows and trying not to reciprocate the smile. "And I thought seeing me _less_  was the priority, according to the party you weren't very keen on my 'horseface'."

"Did I ever say having a horseface was a bad thing, Jean?"

"Uh, yeah, probably when you said, 'Thank God I don't have an ugly horseface like you, Jean' after I told you your hair was stupid."

"I was drunk, and you'd just insulted my hair. That's excusable."

"Says who? Are you the world authority on what constitutes an actual insult, now?"

"Well, since I'm so good at them, yeah."

"Yeah," Jean repeats, leaning back with a smile. "You are so-"

"Everything alright, boys?" Ymir is smiling, too, but her eyes are cautious and Jean hunches in so quick, sudden panic overtaking him at the way Ymir scans Jean and Eren's features.

Ymir was very close with Marco. She specifies in making strong bonds with incredibly sweet people, it seems, and took Marco's death very hard.

She blamed Jean, at first, as she should. And now Jean is...trying so _hard_  not to take an interest in another man, but it must seem obvious, it must be betrayal, it must be, because his heart still aches for Marco and he still loves him, and he promised Marco he'd never forget him or love anyone more than him or want anyone but him. Ymir must know. Ymir must see.

Ymir must be so disappointed in Jean.

"It's great, thanks," Eren chirps, and Jean nods, and Ymir takes Eren's empty plate and leaves.

Jean spills the coffee as he picks it up, drinks and revels in the familiarity of a time when yes, he did love Marco and would never love anyone else. When he lowers the mug, Eren's still there, and he's watching again, his eyes are sharp but he's still smiling. Maybe he can tell. Maybe all Jean is is a walking disaster and maybe it's obvious to everyone.

"You gonna eat that?"

Jean stares at the biscuit. It's beautifully iced, of course, with a sweet popped on top that glistens a little in the soft light, and Jean knows without tasting it that the base will crumble perfectly and the jam will be apricot.

Jean knows this, yet when he nods, he toys with the sweet and pulls it off, nibbling at the edge before frowning.

Eren's watching, and Jean pops it into his mouth. Tangy, a little sour, and chewy; but he gets the whole thing down and thinks, _Maybe this isn't so bad_ , and takes a bite of the biscuit.

Exactly like he thought, except it tastes too bittersweet, sawdust in his mouth, down his throat, and he coughs once, twice, before saying, "Maybe, uh, maybe not."

Eren takes it, and asks, "Everything alright? You sure you don't want some?" Eyes wander to his chest, where the t-shirt hangs limply, and the belt cinched round his hips and Jean pulls back further, crossing his legs like that could hide anything.

"I'm sure," he mumbles.

And Eren just shrugs and leaves it.

~

It becomes a habit. Wednesday, one p.m., Christa's at the windowseat. Eren, in his uniform, beaming at customers and buying the coffee; Jean, in scruffy clothes, waving to Ymir and Eren and refusing to eat. He wears green more, after Eren tells him he looked good in the shirt at the engagement party, and starts to wash his clothes again, hanging them out to dry while the weather's still nice.

It doesn't last long - the weather, that is. July becomes August, maybe - Jean sees the leaves on the trees yellowing and falling, cluttering the pavement, and he sees the nights starting earlier, the temperature getting cooler. Autumn is in bloom, or decay, and every few days Connie and Sasha are over, discussing wedding details with him. The venue, the date, what sort of cake they'll have; they're thinking of April or May, and are already making appointments to see venues. They ask Jean cautiously if he'd like to go with them; he turns his head, because as much as he loves them he doesn't want them to _baby_  him. He may be their best friend, according to them, but he isn't the third of their relationship - he's not part of that.

He stays at home, and he codes, and he speaks to a rubber duck in sunglasses that can't say anything back. He flounders less than before. The previous year was a fog of confusion, and Jean battled every day to get through, or some days, at least; there are many more he can't remember, days he slept through or purposely forgot or ignored altogether. Caught up in grief, he reminisced on everything he didn't have, anguished over what he was left with, and curled up, crying, about what he had done. What he had taken from the world. _"An angel,"_  his relatives had said. Jean had preferred, _"Freckled Jesus,"_ and it felt like a religion that was torn from him, pulled out from under him and suddenly he was on unsure footing, always trying to avoid the fragments of the reality that had been left behind.

Jean sees Sasha and Connie every few days, and Eren and Ymir every week, and Christa and Annie and Bertholdt and Reiner every fortnight or so. When they realise he's out of the flat again, they invite him over for casual gatherings, cosy dinners at each others' houses or going out for lunch at whatever cafes have popped up while Jean was out of it. He's woken from a long sleep, it seems, and everything has a clarity it lacked before.

Eren's eyes are green and gold, and they _sparkle_. Jean is helpless to resist him.

They meet on Wednesdays.

It's well into August, or autumn, because few leaves cling to their branches, and those on the ground are many and dry red, like the wine Christa drinks, and everyone's wrapping up in scarves. Eren has a jacket over his uniform. He greets Jean with a smile, buys two coffees and two cakes, and returns.

"You alright?"

It's the same thing, every time.

"I'm alright."

"Yeah? Your hair's a bit long." Eren settles in opposite him. He always sits with his legs spread wide, feet planted beneath his knees, and his arms thrown over the seat. He sips coffee with one hand and eats his red velvet cake with the other. He's left-handed.

Jean runs a hand through his undercut - a bit shaggy, it's true, and the blond hairs fall into his eyes. "Yeah. I'll..." He doesn't know which number Connie called for him before. Will it be in his history? "I'll get it sorted out."

"How've things been going?"

"Just...the same." Eren's looking expectantly at him. "I mean...I ran out of washing up powder so I haven't done the washing in...in a while...so..."

Eren just keeps looking. "You should chuck it all out. Get some new clothes."

Jean's wearing a beaten Batman t-shirt, and the neckline is so wide it droops over his collarbones. He knows Eren sees it. "I don't know if I have...the money." He bites his lip. "I haven't shopped in...a while."

Ymir, who's the kind of asshole who'll listen to your conversation and butt in shamelessly, butts in shamelessly with, "Hey, Jean, baby girl and I can take you down to town!"

"Shut _up_ , Ymir."

"We know how to shop, Jean. We can get you in and out of there in an hour flat. Not like those bampots Monkey Boy and Potato Girl."

"...Maybe."

"We can get you some new shirts, skinny jeans, you'd look hot as fuck, babe."

"Anything would be an improvement on his usual taste," Eren says.

"My usual taste? What's that supposed to mean? My taste is quality!"

Ymir, slithering away, snickers. "You have the same taste as a shark trying to pretend it's a dolphin with really spiky teeth."

"Maybe that's just my aesthetic."

"Your-!" Eren scoffs. "Shut _up_ , you are fucking ridiculous."

"Cooler than you."

"Hey, Ymir, is Jean cooler than me?"

"Is Jean cooler than anybody?"

They both laugh, and Jean just gulps down his coffee and glares. "I'm cooler than a guy whose first console was an Xbox."

"Are you serious."

"I'm just saying, it's been proven that people who start with Xboxes go on to lead rubbish lives."

"Are you seriously bringing this up again."

"Maybe if you had an N64 you'd have a boyfriend!"

Eren spent a great portion of their meetings bemoaning this fact.

"Ugh, you're such a _tool_ , 'oh look at me I had an N64 when I was a baby, I am _so cool_! Well, let me tell you something, you pretentious prick, no one plays N64's anymore!"

"No one plays Xboxes anymore! And you can find N64's on Ebay for hundreds of pounds!"

"The Xbox One literally _just_  came out, do you know how many I ended up buying as gifts for kids I knew? More than anyone who wanted a Wii U, for sure!"

"If they're related to you, I'm not surprised they have such shite taste!"

The light in the cafe is tinged pink, like everything; it brings out the rosy tones in Eren's cheeks, barely visible beneath his dark skin. His dark hair is bronzed, his lips red, and his eyes are flashing and focused on one thing - Jean, and their stupid past discussion he brought up, their unfinished business.

Jean's wrists are tiny, and he puts his empty mug back on the table, and leans over his crossed legs to listen closer.

"You are so full of _bullshit_ , Jean Kirschtein, there are fucking _reports_  that say the Xbox One outsold the Wii U by-"

"Wow, you did homework for this? Who's the pretentious prick now? Or couldn't you bear losing another argument with me?"

Eren lets out an impassioned, " _Augh_!" and carries on, "If you're talking about Star Trek vs Star Wars, they are _very different things_  but I will _fight_  you for Star Wars!"

"How can Star Wars ever compare to gay soldiers in space?"

"Are you _serious_  right now?!"

"What do you think?" And Jean grins, cocky, and this is what Eren does to him.

Leaves fall from the trees outside and Jean leaves his flat up to three times a week to watch them; he smokes less than twenty packs a day now; he lives, sometimes.

~

Ymir and Christa do take him shopping. It's brief, thank God, but there are still people everywhere, rummaging for clothes and yelling at staff and queueing, so many _fucking_  queues that have Jean tapping his foot and glancing at his watch and clenching his fingers round the bundle in his hands. Ymir and Christa come over, and excavate most of his clothes from the wardrobe. They don't comment on the mess, and they don't go into the bathroom. They choose for him lots of tops, a few hoodies, a good number of winter jumpers, two jackets, and some pairs of jeans and trousers. They pick a blue beanie for him, and matching gloves, and a big fluffy grey scarf, and they keep talking, keep trying to make him laugh, but he doesn't miss the way people stare, the way Ymir has to ask if they have something extra-small, the way Christa's arms are the same width as his.

She reaches in, at one point, with more shirts for Jean to try on whilst he's mid-change, and she stares at his back, the knobs of his spine, the sharp jut of his hip, and something changes in her face but she gives him the shirts and leaves immediately. Jean doesn't ask her about it, and she says nothing when he gets out, so he drops it, forces it from his mind, and keeps spending money.

On Wednesday, Eren comments on his new jeans and his green cardigan; and Jean smiles.

When Jean returns home these days, he sits at his desk and picks up pencils, pens, paint, sometimes, and draws. Doodles. He does _something_ , and minor as it is it feels like an accomplishment, like something to be _proud_  of, but Jean just doesn't think he has the right.

He keeps doing it, though, and more often, Marco's face merges into Sasha's, Connie's, Ymir's, Christa's. Eren's. It's easy, sometimes. They both have- had- have dark skin, big eyes, bright smiles. Freckles can melt away, the jawline can soften more to Eren's shape. It's an accident. It keeps happening.

Jean keeps losing part of himself, and it hurts, and it feels wrong.

It keeps happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bloosh. i'm at [tumboblr](http://tyrellis.tumblr.com) and [tumbler](http://mlp-michaeljones.tumblr.com) ^^


	2. To Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets better, slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellloooooo. look. it's me, updating. i literally wrote half on this from like the hours 2-7am today.... and it's almost 9am... i haven't slept all night... alas the things we do for art <3
> 
> some of the stuff below might be confusing, um partially due to me basing so much of it on where i live. like. there's a street described that i go to literally every sunday... also, some stuff about ceilidh dancing! idk what foreigners know/think abt it tbh?? but it's hella common in scotland, like when we have a formal event it's what we do (like...when americans have prom and shit like??? what do u do/? if u don't ceilidh dance?? like do u sway to music. is that?? it?????). there are loads of dances with various names, some in pairs, one that i know of in a trio (shoutout to dashing white sergeants, best dance ever), then some in sets, usually of 4 pairs (eg strip the willow). anyway with ppl u like/are decent fun ppl, and with enough space to really spin around in proper, it is actually so much fun. love a good ceilidh. i went to one for st andrews night at the end of november at school. a+ stuff really.
> 
> also, some brief stuff about the kilt and shit, stuff about stuff, bars, cafes, ppl trying to give jean advice, it is literally all the same advice tho... ALSO mentions of strictly come dancing and the apprentice.... strictly is so important to me..... fucking fight me about brucie his chat is rubbish...
> 
> and shoutout to the real ship, jeanconniesasha lbr... ok i don't actually ship it romantically but their friendship is so important!!! also been feeling quite touch-starved lately and i feel like that rly translated into half of the actions ppl do this chap... yeah look that trio's friendship to me is so precious i will defend it with the fury of a thousand suns. k
> 
> RIGHT anyway pls read <3 and ignore my shite bant like i've said, 9am....

_I was swimming_  
 _My eyes were dark 'til you woke me_  
 _And told me that opening is just the start_  
 _It was  
_ **3 Rounds and a Sound - Blind Pilot**

~

Christa comes round for pseudo-therapist sessions. She asks him how much he's smoking, and how much he eats, and when he last showered, and how he _feels_.

Ymir starts coming round solo as well, and they watch films together on Netflix, or she brings over her old Disney videos and spends three hours getting them to work on Jean's really old, really shitty video player, or they marathon TV shows online. She starts bringing in food like popcorn and Pringles and chocolate, and none of it's healthy at all but when he's caught up in watching something his hand absent-mindedly dives into the popcorn bucket or the Pringles tube or the open pack of sweets between them, and he eats them, gets them past his lips and tastes them and they go down his throat and they _stay_.

Ymir also has a jug of ice water on the table before them, and he refills his glass often enough he has to keep asking for bathroom breaks, and instead of being pissed she just shrugs and takes out her phone, says it's a good time to text Christa. Jean knows what she's doing, but so far it's working, and not much has worked for Jean lately so he'll take it.

It's Friday, and she's over, and they're curled up under some blankets after watching _Blackfish_. The documentary made even _Ymir_  tear up, so in order to cheer up Jean's started talking about his meeting with Eren on Wednesday, where they discussed the pro's and con's of calling your son Albus Severus Potter, then debating what better name you could give your child. Ymir's got her hands round her tea and she's smiling, just a little, but it gives Jean strength to explain, in detail, the several ways in which Eren was wrong and also why calling your son Justin Bieber is on a par with calling him Albus Severus.

As Jean speaks, Ymir moves back into the kitchen, refilling the jug and making up sandwiches - he assumes she bought the ingredients - for the both of them. Handing a plate to Jean as she sits, she says, "You know, Jean, you talk an awful lot about some bloke you say you hate."

Ymir _can_  be incredibly cunning and smart on some occasions, notably when trying to get out of doing something and wheedling sex from her girlfriend; but other times, she's incredibly blunt, and incredibly tactless.

"...So what?"

Ymir shrugs. "Nice to see you getting out, that's all."

Jean scowls. "Whatever, Ymir."

"C'mon, babe!" she says, leaning over. "Be honest. D'ya like him? I'd see why you would; good face, good money, potentially good dick, if what Armin says is to be at all trusted..."

Weakly, and reluctantly, Jean asks, "Armin?"

Ymir hums. "Apparently they were together yonks ago."

"Used to be."

"You do, then?"

"Shut up, Ymir."

"You haven't talked about anyone like this in ages, Jean."

"Give it a rest." Jean remembers fourth year very clearly: fifteen, and gross-faced, and texting Sasha and Connie nonstop about how good Marco was at English, and thank God he was helping Jean out, and how Marco got picked for 1st XV but still went to chess club, and how unfair it was that Jean had acne and big ears but Marco grew flawlessly into his freckles and strong jaw and long nose.

"We're not eejits, Jean. Just talk to us!"

Jean's not an eejit either.

"Shut it, Ymir," he mutters.

"Jean, babe, I love you; _we_ love you, and Eren's a bit of a bampot but he could-"

"Piss off."

"What?"

"Piss off, Ymir, I don't want to hear it."

" _Jean_ -"

"Leave it alone."

He's curled in the corner of the sofa, food and drink abandoned on the table, arms clinging to his legs. Ymir glares, and stands. "Whatever, Jean!" she yells. "What-the fuck-ever, you can't stay like this forever, you know! It's already been a year, some of us actually have _lives_ , and if you're going to be stubborn about this then I'm just not going to fucking bother with it, alright?! You fucking stubborn _idiot_!"

The door slams shut behind her, and within two seconds Jean's on his knees in front of his toilet, throwing up everything he consumed that day.

Jean draws a dark-skinned, freckled girl in the woods; and he tears it up. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't code.

Christa rings him the next day, and apologises. He thanks her mindlessly, asks her not to come over for awhile. She's so worried but he locks the door and lays back on his bed and forgets about everything, at least for a while.

~

It's happened before. When his parents kicked him out. The required existential crisis from fifteen to seventeen years old. Once, when he was very young, that he still remembers so clearly. His parents hadn't known what to do. They'd taken him to the doctors.

He's meant to do that now, but it's not like his parents will call him up to go, and he refused to go near a hospital for months after it happened and eventually everyone just gave up. Jean's been here before, and he's gotten through it before, but he can't do it this time. All those times before, he had his rock, he had Marco, who was always so optimistic and caring and would let him cry or lie in bed if he needed to but knew when it was time to smile and get up. Of course Marco knew. Marco understood Jean in a way no one else has quite since.

Marco would be disappointed, Jean thinks. Friday, after Ymir left, was spent in bed. Saturday, the bathroom and in bed. The blood hasn't gone away, and Jean wonders if there's more or if he's crazy. Sunday, the holy day, Jean hides under his pillow from nothing, grips his duvet out of fear of nothing, and only ever goes to the bathroom. He eats nothing, and he feels nothing either, except the drag of monotony and the kind of ingrained sadness that digs into all the crevices between your bones and stays there for years, like the pockets of oil quashed beneath fossils in the sea.

It sticks.

Monday, and he's in bed, with his laptop on his thighs. His phone ran out of charge, but he's hooked it up now. It's still turning on. The curtains are closed, but no light comes through them even though it's midday. Autumn, definitely, has set in, and Jean forgets to turn on the heating. It's always chilly, but he's always tucked under his duvet.

He's cold, anyway. He has a document open for coding, but his fingers are frozen stiff. He moves only when his phone buzzes, and various texts pop up on the lock screen.

Sasha, Connie, Christa, Ymir... One from Annie. A lot from Eren. Two from Reiner.

Christa and Ymir both apologise for the latter's actions on Friday. They both ask to come round. Jean denies them both.

Annie asks if he's okay. He doesn't reply. Reiner asks the same, and extends an offer for drinks on...Saturday. He's missed them, so Jean ignores that, too.

Sasha, chatting about wedding plans and places they're thinking of checking out or food they want to try, and asking Jean if he wants to come along, then concern when he doesn't text back, then asking why Ymir had upset him so much. Connie's the same, really, but he approaches it differently: Sasha is soft and caring, but Connie is blunt and expresses his confusion very clearly. Jean tells them he's not really feeling up to much this week, and if they could please leave him alone, thanks.

He doubts they will, though.

He leaves Eren's texts for last, finds himself tensing up as he opens them and scrolls to the earliest one.

_yooo i found a link to a petition to change the name! haha signed it, u should have a look mate xx_

_went to christa's today, told me ymir is w/ u, watching disney and blackfish. ur both going to cry so hard at the last one btw xx_

_rigHT well ymir just came storming in. r u alright? xx_

_jean cmon no one's been able to reach u all night xx_

_jean, drinks on sat? reiner's?? cmon mate xx_

_jean i am v worried abt u, won't u talk? xx_

And, finally: _letting u off with it this time just bc ik consash r gonna come chat 2 u idk prepare urself?xx_

Jean stares at the messages, and the little symbol that appears to show Eren's he's seen them, then switches his phone back off. He has a blank document before him, an empty stomach, and a rubber duck that can't talk back.

~

Sasha and Connie do come by, on Tuesday. Jean's still asleep when they come in, only waking when he registers the chilly wind that rustles down to his room. Sasha's wearing a leather jacket and Connie's in a duffle coat. Maybe it's later on in Autumn than Jean thought.

"Oh, _Jean_ ," Sasha says. Connie's arms are crossed and he's frowning.

"It's nothing," he says, but he hasn't spoken in days and it sounds wrong. "It'll pass."

And it will. He just...doesn't know when.

"I thought it already passed," Connie murmurs, and sits on the bed.

"It comes and goes," Jean sighs. "I..."

Sasha's watching him carefully, stood in front of him; when he hesitates, she reaches out a hand and he slips his own against it, her fingers curling round his so that he won't let go.

"What is it, babe," she asks. Her eyes are full of patience and kindness, and Connie's presence is solid as always beside him. "What happened this time?"

Jean doesn't know what to say; grasps empty air for the words he needs to explain himself. He doesn't know if he _can_  explain himself. Ymir scared him, alright? Ymir made him think about things he didn't want to think about, and she made him think about Marco, and she scared him.

And so Jean stayed in bed for the whole weekend.

"Jean?" Connie's voice is louder, somehow, and within its nuances Jean can find cracks, can see the beginnings of frustration. He understands. He feels the same way.

"W-well... I had Ymir over the other day, a-and..." He has to take a deep breath. "She said I... She asked me why I...talked about....Eren so much..."

He doesn't have the guts to spell it out. He hopes it's enough. He doesn't want to repeat Ymir's words.

Sasha's fingers tighten around his. "Did she," she breathes. "And why would that be?"

Jean shakes his head and tries to pull away, but she won't let him, and Connie's hand lands on his shoulder and keeps him still.

It is freezing cold. Jean hadn't noticed before, but he's sat up a little in his bed, and the duvet has slipped from his shoulders, and he's just wearing a t-shirt, so it's easy to shiver and cross his arms and try to blot it out.

"It doesn't matter," Jean whispers.

"Tell us."

"She said I might... Like, l-like with Marco, except...with E-Eren...but that can't be-"

"And what did you say?"

Connie's eyes stare right back into his. Jean looks down. "I told her to leave."

" _Why_?"

"Be-because she's wrong! I don't... I wouldn't... I can't- I still love- I can't-!"

" _Jean_ ," Sasha says. "Babe, don't..." She takes a big gusty sigh, sliding her eyes to Connie then back to Jean. "Don't you think it's time to...move on?"

_Move on_. Like he hasn't been trying for months. Like it doesn't hurt _every time_  he does try, like he's being pulled apart, inch by inch, every muscle and bone stretching and breaking so he doesn't try, he doesn't stretch, he lies in bed but the ache stays.

Jean _loves_  Marco, even if he is dead. He can't... _forget_  him, or replace him, because Marco _changed Jean's life_ , he made life worth living even when it went to shit, and falling in love with some other guy after Marco's death? It feels too strongly of betrayal, Jean refutes it. He won't let it happen. He won't let  _Eren_  happen to him, not the way Marco did. He can't handle it, can't go through it again. He won't, he won't, he refuses to-

"Jean, Jean, Jean," Sasha whispers, "baby, it'll be okay. You'll be alright. It'll pass."

Connie's hand is warm on his back.

"It's supposed to pass," Jean gasps out, "it was supposed to have passed months ago! It h-happened over a year ago! I don't know why- why I can't- I can't get o-over this, I c-can't do it, not by myself, not without... W-without..."

"But he's gone now," Sasha soothes, even though the words make him shake his head. "He's gone now, yeah?"

"Y-yeah..."

"You have us to rely on, okay? We'll do whatever you want us to do, if it means going down to the GP and putting in for a prescription, or getting you a coffee, or cleaning up - we're _always_  here for you, babe, we always have been."

Sasha runs her hand through his hair - still shaggy, still uncut - until he lays his head on her shoulder. It's a little awkward, because she's shorter than him, but her hair is soft and her clothes smell so much like her that Jean buries his head in a little more.

"Yeah, Jean," Connie picks up. "You've got us - but you have Ymir, Christa, Reiner and Bertl and Annie as well... They all - _we_  all - care about you, and we love you. We worry about you. And...I know you're not very close yet, but Mikasa and Armin care, too."

Sasha and Connie share a look. Jean stares at the print of Sasha's skirt. "Eren cares too, you know," Connie murmurs. "I know you're- but it doesn't have to go anywhere. Your... _relationship_  with him, only you can decide if you want to move it forward or not. If you don't feel ready, that's okay. If you want to stay his friend, that's okay. But you need to talk to him straight about this. Okay?"

"I don't know... I don't how long it will take..."

"Why don't you go have a shower, babe?" Sasha suggests. "Your hair's looking long, as well, do you want me to...?"

Jean presses his head harder into her shoulder. "I can't- have you guys _babying_  me all the time. I need to..do this for myself."

"You can," Connie assures him, patting his shoulder. "We're just getting you back on track, yeah?"

He nods, and Connie's on his phone in seconds and Sasha accompanies him to the bathroom, bites her lip when she sees the sink, but drops a kiss on his cheek and leaves.

It's good to shower. The water's hot, but his teeth chatter even as he washes himself. He does it slow, hands shaky with the shower gel and the shampoo, but when he steps out he feels clean, different from before. He takes a moment to shave, and, once done, ends up staring at the razor. He knows what Connie thinks, what they all think - but he's not sure if they're right or not.

He puts the razor down, and exits in a towel. Sasha and Connie are conversing in murmurs when he enters, and when they look at him their eyes go wide and Connie swallows, so obviously, but Jean turns his back and picks out some more clothes. Trackies, a hoodie, a pair of Spiderman boxers because Jean always wanted to be like him, just a little.

They're still staring when he faces them - and why wouldn't they? He still hasn't been gaining weight, even though he was trying to get better, it's like he's forgotten how to cook things, forgotten how to eat like a regular person...

"Will you be alright, Jean?" Connie asks. He stands, tugging Sasha by the hand, and steps closer.

Jean shrugs. "I- don't know. It'll pass, though," he says, for the nth time. _It has to pass_. "It just might- take a while, s'all."

"Okay," Sasha says, and gives him another kiss on the cheek. "We'll be seeing you around, darling - but we have a few appointments to meet over the next few days for the wedding." She smiles.

"And!" Connie butts in, clutching Sasha's hand and grinning. "We're planning our Halloween costumes! Got to get ready for the kids coming round guising! This year I thought it could be like _X Factor_ , where the kids do their piece and we have to be like 'yes' or 'no' and depending on how many 'yes'es they get, they get sweets."

"Seriously?"

Sasha shrugs, eyes bright.

"Poor kids," he says. "I don't think that'll work with only two people, though."

"Oh - we were going to have Eren and Mikasa and Armin round, actually - since we live right next to each other, and it'd be more fun, anyways. I think everyone wants to go to Reiner's after, though."

"Do they..."

"You can come too, you know. Gotta sort that costume out quick, though."

They're both smiling at him. He says, "I'll think about it."

They hug him, kiss him, and leave him.

~

It doesn't pass. It doesn't get better, like he thought it might, like he hoped; it gets worse, and he's in bed whenever possible, which is the majority of the time. It's easy to lose track of time when he turns his phone off and closes his curtains, and he doesn't even have a regular sleeping or meal schedule that would inform him of how much time has passed.

He sent a text to Eren, after Consash had left, saying he probably wouldn't make it that Wednesday. Which had been fine, because Jean figured he just needed a couple more days, but he sleeps and time passes and everything stays the same.

He stagnates.

He's sick of it.

He needs to get up, _has_  to get up, he was going to do better, it would pass and he would do better, but he can't, he's just stuck here, and whose fault is that? His own, it's his own fucking fault because he's so useless, so easily crushed by this illness - it wouldn't even be this bad if he'd just- on that June 16th, if he'd just _not_  drank, not driven, if he hadn't done any of the awful things he'd done Marco would still be alive and Jean wouldn't be like _this_ -

He's lost for days. He ignores work by turning off his laptop, ignores his friends by turning off his phone, ignores time passing by turning off the lights and hiding himself from the outside, from change. He misses his hair appointment. He doesn't even call them.

He wakes up from this haze - this _bullshit_  - when he's curled on his side of his bed, eyes half-mast and glazed, staring at the wall. He can't stop thinking awful things, can't stop clawing at the flesh around his nails that doesn't even hurt, and he almost falls out of bed when someone says, "Jean?"

Of course, it's not just anyone - it's Eren.

He doesn't even have the energy to look over. He doesn't have the energy to say anything at all.

Footsteps approach him, getting louder yet more careful, and it's only when Jean hears a crunch and a hissed curse that he realises Eren is trying to avoid all the broken things scattered around him.

Why, Jean thinks, would he keep coming closer?

"Jean," he says again.

"Leave me alone," he croaks. He hasn't spoken in who knows how long.

"Jean, no, I can't, I- you didn't show up on Wednesday." The mattress dips beside him. "It's Friday."

Jean keeps staring at the wall.

Shoes hit the ground, then Eren's clambering over him, to the empty side of the bed, and then hands are on Jean, turning him over and pulling him up against the headboard and he doesn't even fight it, just lets Eren do this, and stares at him when he stops.

"Hey, Jean."

Jean opens his mouth, but can't find the words - he bites his lip, for a second, then manages, "I don't need you here."

Eren brushes a hand through Jean's hair, frowning, then runs it down Jean's arm, pulls it from the duvet and takes his hand, counting each individual finger and interlocking them with his own.

"You know," he murmurs, "it's okay. I was- when I was young, I was like this, too." Jean barely raises an eyebrow, and Eren rubs a hand at the back of his neck. "My mum died young, and my dad pissed off around the same time, and it was just me and Mikasa on our own, and we picked up Armin at the care home, and it was... I was...really angry, all the time, and it's, you know, the regular story - angry kid does stupid shit, breaks laws, gets into fights for money - ends up reforming as the polis. Yeah?"

"You're lucky," Jean mutters. Jean would never have expected that from Eren - but it makes sense, looking back. Eren's temper, his protectiveness over his friends, the way he saw Jean's flaws and quirks and took it all in stride, just like he's doing now. "I can't- I can't move past it. I _can't_."

"You can," Eren assures him. "It just takes time. And that's okay."

"Is it? It's been... It's been so long."

"Took me ten years."

"Ten years?"

"Yeah, I..." Eren glances off to the side, the tops of his cheeks red. "I did not cope well with loss, to say the least. I was...really pissed at everything, 'specially myself, and it was easy to just..." Eren tips his head. "It was a cycle, the more I fought the more money I got, but I felt... There was nothing in that. Mikasa hated it, Armin hated it, _I_  fucking...wanted to die, all the time."

"But you didn't."

"Yeah," Eren says, then swallows and adds, "Tried to, though... A few times. So I just- I don't want to see- I mean- you don't deserve this. Let us help you."

Jean sees Eren as though he's only just opened his eyes - he's looking back at him, bright-eyed and the corner of his lip quirked, eyebrows pulling together as Jean stares. Eren Jaeger attempting suicide? It sounds...unreal. It's hard to imagine someone like Eren being like that now... He's a _police man_ , for god's sake, he waves at people and engages them in pleasant conversation and likes to argue about films.

He asks, "How'd you get better?"

"Uh, well, I had Mikasa and Armin the whole time, so... It-it took a long time but I eventually got my license and applied to the police, and, bloody hell, they took me on... I met this guy called Levi, 'bout double my age who used to do that whole MI5 shit or somethin', seen some shit, and he really, uh, showed me what life was about..."

Jean, despite himself, crosses his arms tighter, bites the inside of his mouth and he glances at Eren. "Did he now."

"Yeah, him and his spouse, Hanji, really helped me figure out some shit... And it took a while, but I passed all the training and started out an officer and, now..." He smiles, eyes lit up even in the semi-darkness, and his hand is still warm round Jean's. "So, you have to believe. You _can_  get better, you _will_ , okay?"

"Okay."

"So how'd you want to start?"

"St-start?"

"Start getting better."

"I don't, I-I..." He frowns, ignoring Eren, and concentrating on everything his life's been lacking for so long. "I want...to start showering every day. A-and changing every day. And brushing my teeth and, that sort of stuff... I n-need to clean this mess, the whole flat's a mess... I want to get back to my job, I, I haven't checked it in days, and...I want to start... I _need_  to start eating regularly again. I haven't-" Jean presses the heel of his free hand into his eye, feels boney and cold and weak. "I haven't eaten in days."

"Let's- let's fix that then, yeah?" Eren says. "Do you want to stay in, or?"

Jean shrugs. "I don't think I have any food..."

"Right, no, right... Right, let's get you a shower, yeah? I'll get you something to wear, it's getting bloody baltic out there, we can leave in twenty, thirty?"

"...Sure."

Eren shuffles off the bed. "Well...at least we're _trying_." He comes round to Jean's side, frowning when he looks at the ground, then gives him a hand up. Jean's gotten used to being weaker than he once was, but all the energy's been sapped from him and he stumbles, grabbing Eren's shoulder and hissing because _why_ , why is this so difficult? This simple human movement, the easiest thing in the world, he can't even do...

Eren takes care to avoid the mess - Jean's been trampling broken things for months.

"You should be more careful," Eren says, but Jean only shrugs and goes to the bathroom, Eren his shadow, and stops short at the entrance. Eren's never been here before. His other friends- they've all seen the mess Jean's life is, and they've grown used to it. Eren has not.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," he says. "I just- yeah."

Jean has to lean against the wall to remain upright, and Eren peeks in, like he's making sure everything's okay, and his eyes take in the toilet, the shower, the mottled blue bath rug on the floor, the cracked mirror, and the sink, still stained reddish-brown, and his lips pinch.

"What's this?"

"'S nothing."

"How'd it happen?"

"Nothing happened."

" _Jean_."

" _Eren_."

"...I don't...remember. How it- how that happened."

Eren's brows furrow, and he turns back to Jean, frowning. "You don't remember?"

He shakes his head. "Last year...a-after he..." He rubs at his eyes. "You know. I was- _it_  was...really bad, really, really bad, I... I was always losing time, there are so many things that just...passed me by..."

Eren sighs. "I got that a lot. So that's...?" He nods to the sink, and Jean shrugs.

"It could be anything," he says, drops his head. "Anything."

Eren bites his lip. "You'll be alright?"

"'Course."

He leaves the room, and Jean showers, unable to enjoy it this time because he can't stop thinking of the way Eren looked, the lines on his face when he saw the stain on the sink that Jean can never get rid of - the way Jean seems to be reminding Eren of his own past. It makes Jean worry, makes him _care_ , more than he's cared about anything in a long while, and that's... He can't let that happen. If he... If what they all say is true. If what the newspapers, the family, his own parents...his own _mind_  says is true - that it's Jean's fault and Jean killed Marco - then he can't possibly... The _least_  he can do is stay faithful to Marco, even if he's gone. Remain faithful to his memory, to his ghost. This... What he feels for Eren, this worry and this like-like and this _care_ , this can't continue. Jean can't- _do_  that again, and he can't do that to Marco.

Nonetheless - Jean doesn't want to remind Eren of his past, not if it's dark like Jean's present. Jean wants Eren to be happy, as awful as it makes him feel, but Eren can't possibly be happy if Jean's a constant reminder of his past illness. Eren shouldn't be around Jean - _no one_  should. He'd been so close to getting everyone to leave him alone...and now they're crowding back into his life again.

(He doesn't say out loud, for fear Marco's ghost _is_  here and listening, for fear Marco's family will hear things - but Jean's the happiest he's been in months, and he's not even that happy.)

He doesn't take too long, because he knows Eren's waiting and he doesn't want to inconvenience him anymore than he already has - he gets out, dries off, and is about to change into what he'd been wearing before when Eren knocks and chucks some clothes at him before slamming the door shut.

Black skinny jeans, like usual, a plain t-shirt and big green hipster jumper that Jean feels guilty for quirking a smile at, and polka-dot socks he didn't even know he owned. Outside, in the living room, Eren's waiting, wearing an anorak with a fluffy hood. He looks down at a pair of boots then back to Jean, a duffel coat hanging off his arm. Jean does his boots up first, finger slipping a few times on the laces, then pulls on the coat - it's one of the new things that he bought with Christa and Ymir, so it actually fits well over the rest of his outfit, and Eren's grinning as he throws a scarf at Jean's face.

Jean peels it from his face, chancing a glance out the window - pouring it down. "How cold is it out there?"

"Cold enough to freeze my bawbags off!" Eren chirps. "Pishin' it down as well."

"Bugger," Jean mutters, and wraps the scarf round his neck. "Where are we... Where we going?"

"You want to go to Christa's? We can go wherever, mate."

He thinks of Ymir - he says, "Take me anywhere."

They don't go to Christa's. Instead, some new cafe that's popped up across from the park, and they unravel their various items of clothing due to the heat inside. Eren gets a bacon sannie and some weird juice drink - Jean deliberates for a very long time, then Eren starts recommending things and he gets chicken noodle soup, because, as Eren points out, it _is_ one of the most delicious things in the world. This, and water, for now - he's not sure caffeine is really the thing he needs.

It's nice to be out.

Nice to see the streets, drenched as they are. Nice to see people battling the rain to walk their dogs in the park opposite. Nice to see couples and families and friends cooped up in this warm little cafe, blethering and laughing and sipping tea. Nice to feel like he's part of the world.

"So," Eren starts, once his lunch is consumed. "How do you want to- get through the next while?"

It's almost too easy to say he doesn't want to, that he just wants to _not_  - but Eren's eyes go wide and hard and he says, "I really don't- I don't know. My job, I need to keep my job, I... Sasha... Connie and Sasha's wedding, I should- Connie wants me as his b-best man, so I should..." He bites his lip, glancing up to Eren, but he nods and smiles. "I should agree to it, shouldn't I?"

"If you want to," Eren says. "If you want to, and think it will be good for you, do it."

"...It will be, won't it."

Eren shrugs. "Why don't you tell them now?"

"I-it'd be weird."

"So? They'd be happy to hear from you."

Jean keeps hesitating.

"Look, do you want me to give 'em a ring and you can-"

"No! It's fine, I'll-" Jean stars digging through his pockets, unable to handle what Sasha and Connie would think of Jean calling from Eren's phone - but he realises that Eren tossed him his clothes and they left, and he has no idea where his mobile is. " _Bugger_ ," he hisses, and at Eren's quirked brow, he adds, "Left my phone at home. G-guess we'll just have to..."

Eren grins, gets his phone out, and dials - instead of passing the phone back to Jean, though, he starts chattering to whoever he's called: "Alright? Al _right_ , Conman! Aye, I'm out - that new place by the park, near Jean's place - aye, with him the noo... Naw, just a wee chat... Sorting things out, you ken?" Jean digs his teeth into his bottom lip, scowling but watching Eren anyway. "Oh aye, I ken... _Do_  you now... Well, he's here with me the noo, so I'll just- aye, aye, alright. See you later, give Sash my love- _not that_ , Connie, fucking _Christ_  - alright, here you go, aye?"

Eren passes the phone over, grinning like a child, and Jean rolls his eyes and shakes his head and takes the phone.

"Jean?" Connie asks.

"...Hey, Connie."

"Hey, Jean! Mate, it has been a _while_  since we last chatted, yeah? Maybe you should come over - _or_ , you can come out with us all tomorrow? You know the bar round near where Sasha works? Or we could-"

"Connie," Jean says, and Connie stops. "I don't... I don't _know_." He ducks his head, hides his eyes from Eren. "I-it hasn't...passed yet. But- I'll try. More. Harder. For- for all of you, yeah? Because- be-because I... I've decided I'll... I-I'll be your best man. A-at the wedding. I promise."

He risks a glance at Eren, whose face seems incapable of holding his wide smile, and across the line he hears what he thinks is Connie slamming the phone against the table and cheering to himself. _What a loser_ , he thinks, allowing a smile.

"Aw yeah, aw _yeah_!" Connie exclaims, back on the line. "I fucking _love_  you, you fucking dumb eejit, fucking come round here, let me put my arms round you, my sweet summer son, my _child_ , let us elope to Gretna Green, we can marry without Sasha- or _with_  Sasha, even more fun-"

Jean's startled to hear himself laughing. Quietly, it's true, but it's there. Eren looks like he might cry - the phone's not on speaker, but Jean wouldn't be surprised if Connie's voice is so loud that Eren can hear it nonetheless.

"-we are going to have a fucking _blast_ , we can shop for bow ties and cufflinks and- oh, I was going to wear a kilt, as well, we can co-ordinate colours, or- matching _sporrans_ , Jean! And waistcoats! We can even wear the same _socks_!" Eren appears to be choking from his laughter. Jean has tears in his eyes. "Promise me a dance at the reception Jean - I'll even let you do some casual music - what about Gay Gordans, Jean, it's practically _named_  after us and our relationship- or Strip the Willow, we can do that with Ymir and Christa and Reiner and Bertl and-"

"Alright, alright!" Jean laughs, and Connie's voice catches over the phone. "Yeah, I'll dance with you, you bampot. I'll- yeah, I'll do it."

There's quiet across the phone for a moment, and though Eren's still snickering his eyes are serious. Connie then says, very somberly, "I hope you remember all the steps, Jean, or else we'll have to teach you them again."

And Jean says, in a fit of inspiration, or perhaps confidence from the bright way Eren looks at him, "Do that anyway. Get everyone round, and, um-" Eren nods encouragingly. "Get all our pals round, maybe at Reiner's, b-because he has a big hall, a-and we can all...practise dancing. I-I'm a bit rusty."

"Well, _I_  ain't!" Connie brags. "My boss throws a ceilidh every few months, I'm an _expert_  at country dancing."

"Brag about it," Jean mutters, and finally feels a real warmth blooming within him. Looking down, he realises he's had all his soup. He glances at the display cabinet by the counter, and covering the mic on the phone, he asks Eren, "Can you get me some macaroons?"

Eren beams, and leaps up to do so. Jean keeps listening to Connie's ideas, his plans for everyone to come round at Hogsmanay, which Jean is startled to realise is only two months away, and they can celebrate the new year with some good old dancing - then more wedding-related ideas, as Eren returns with a muffin for himself and the macaroons for Jean, one of all four flavours available,and Jean eats them as he listens, nodding and speaking up on occasion, filling Eren in whenever they've a spare moment. It takes far longer than Jean imagined - Connie is very intense about this wedding, it seems, and they've already looked round a few venues and made a shortlist of themes and decided on the colour for their flowers.

Connie fills Jean in on every last detail, then makes Jean promise to come over to his and Sasha's before they go out tomorrow so they can 'talk it over proper', and Jean rolls his eyes at Eren as he's finally able to hang up and pass the phone back over.

"Incredible," Jean utters.

"So," Eren says, grinning, "the Gay Gordans is named after you and Connie? Well, shit, mate, I had no idea. I better back off, huh? Can't touch that relationship level, can I?"

Jean's mood has brightened considerably - his shoulders finally feel loose and he isn't exhausted and he's still half-laughing at his and Connie's conversation, so he says, "You can try."

It's wrong. It's _wrong_. He knows he should be reminding himself, should be harking back to a few hours ago when he resolved not to bother Eren with his problems, to not bother with _Eren_ , but Jean hasn't been happy in over a year, and...it's easy, to say things like that. Smile like he's doing, bite his lip not out of nerves for once, then complain loudly about how Eren's not already paid the bill.

Eren drives him home, parts with an arm round Jean's shoulders and a promise to meet again soon - then reminding each other they'll meet again at the bar tomorrow. Jean smiles, heads up the close to his flat, and opens the door.

He sees the mess on the floor, the emptiness of his kitchen, the broken pictures on the wall - the smile falls, his fingers still, and he goes to the couch and codes viciously for several hours. At the end of it, he has a barrage of texts from various friends, the majority sent by the ultimate duo Consash, and he manages to sleep relatively easy, for once.

~

When Jean wakes on Saturday, it's light - he slept in till 10a.m.. After the coding yesterday, he'd sent an email to his boss to try and explain - it was a weird sort of heart-to-heart, actually. His boss knows Jean suffers depression, and Jean had said he'd been experiencing a severe bout of it lately; his boss, however, sympathised, because apparently his wife had it, too. Jean's safe, as long as he emails in whenever he's too low to work, and he's free to take the weekend off, properly.

So this morning, he sits on the window seat in the living room, after clearing some of the rubbish off it, with a board and his sketchpad and an array of utensils. He sits for awhile, considering - his little area of Trost is pretty, especially in this overcast light, but that's not what he cares to draw right now. He takes up a pencil, for now, and he sketches Eren, easily.

It's not Eren he wants to draw, either, though. Instead, he remembers when Connie and Sasha first told him they were getting married, when he'd stared at their crisscrossed hands in awe, in fear, in remembrance. He chooses watercolour, and it only takes him a few hours to do, and to like. He considers bringing it with him to Consash's, since it's now almost two and he promised he'd be over at theirs before four. He then decides he'll do a bunch of paintings for them, maybe a series, and frame them all and they can be his present at their wedding. It would be cost-efficient, at least.

Connie and Sasha don't live awfully far away - he'd drive if that was anywhere near a good idea, but besides, he still remembers the way so he might as well walk. He puts on jeans and a shirt that has day-to-night wearability (something Ymir was always going on about when he used to wear dumb t-shirts to the pub), then dons the usual coat and boots, and the same scarf he wore out with Eren the day before, and shoves his hands in the pockets.

Outside, the air bites at his bare skin, but it's alright. It's fresh, he feels like he can finally breathe again. He passes flats and the wee park across the road and the pond he once got chased around by swans at. He crosses at zebra crossings and raises his hands to cars that let him pass, nods at whoever he makes eye contact with, hands in fists in pockets. A few people even recognise him - when he passes Peckhams, where there's a few stalls of fresh fruit outside and where he used to shop at every Thursday, the attendant raises her eyebrow and quirks a smile. At the M&S garage a little further down, where he stops at so he doesn't go empty-handed to his friends', one of the cashiers there makes small talk with him. He even seems to pass a neighbour, not that he really remembers any of his neighbours.

It's weird. It's nice.

He goes almost the entire length of one of their busier roads, near the city's main university, a mixture of posh and student, sprawling with hipster hangouts, upmarket stores, and charity shops, and he passes students with brightly-coloured hair and beggars in heavy coats and rich mums encouraging their children to get gloves and hats before it gets any colder.

Then he steps off that road, down some streets, and locates the right tenements, because Sasha and Connie are rich enough to rent one of the nicer places round here already. Sasha started up an unorthodox baking company (he's pretty sure he passed one of its shops back on the main road, actually) that's of course taken off, and Connie's some activity instructor who works at the Intu place next to the shopping centre, where he does climbing and skiing and snowboarding and bowling and all sorts of dumb shit. Jean's not entirely sure - he's an instructor, but he's pretty high up the chain of command. They both earn enough for a decent-enough flat, though. Not big, and not sandstone like most of the flats in this area, not the same architecture, but newer, and nice enough. Their door is painted bright yellow, and that's all you need to know, really.

He rings the buzzer, and waits only two seconds before he hears someone start singing through the speaker and Sasha agrees to let him in. After a moment, the lock clicks, and he goes in, climbing a few staircases before he turns the right corner and finds their door. It opens immediately, and there's Sasha, her hair in a messy top-bun, wearing an apron from her and Connie's trip to Italy, a while back - it's very classy, very tasteful, a print of a Roman statue with his bits hanging out. They'd bought it to match Connie's similarly-printed boxers that they'd bought from Sorrento, and the Erotic Pompeii calendar for the year 2012.

" _Hello_ , Jean!" she trills, reaching out to dust his hair. "Come in, darling, you're not cold, are you? Connie, can you take his jacket? We've had the heating on _all day_ , and it's not even November yet! Oh, that reminds me - Halloween! At ours, remember, Jean? We need to get you an outfit. I was thinking a skeleton, because that's easy, but if we could do the Scooby Doo Crew with Reiner and Bertl, Reiner's volunteered to be Velma as long as Connie's Scooby. Yeah?"

Jean blinks.

"C-can we sit down?"

Connie appears in trackies and a Spongebob shirt, and takes Jean's coat and scarf from him when he takes them off. "Yeah, Sash, he's just walked a good half-hour here, why don't we all sit in the kitchen? I can get us some tea!"

"Please do, babe!" Sasha replies as Connie dumps Jean's stuff on the stand in the hall and goes back to the kitchen. "Come along, Jean, I decided to make cupcakes! I got very inspired at about four a.m. last night, and I've been baking all day... Smells good, though, right?"

Jean is led into the kitchen, and nods. He's not entirely sure _what_  he's smelling, but it smells good, and of Sasha, and of comfort, and it's the kind of scent he wouldn't mind wrapping himself up in forever.

On the kitchen table is paper. Endless bits of paper, some scrawled-on napkins, others ripped pages out of diaries, most random sheets of paper with things written in the margin. There are Pukka Pads with dividers, every one of them having 'WEDDING STUFF!!! :)' written in gold Sharpie on. He opens one, flits through it. The first bit is of flowers, and there are some petals stuck to the page with little written bits - one by whatever florist they went to, then an opinion each by Connie and Sasha. There's space for a fourth person, and Jean's chest goes a bit funny.

He drifts through some of the other notebooks, only to realise that huge chunks of it are still empty, only with a few things stuck in or notes scrawled on, because it's still early days and of _course_  they haven't thought everything through yet.

Connie rounds his shoulder and dumps a mug of tea in front of him. Giving it a sniff, he realises it's vanilla oolong, and rolls his eyes - just like Sasha's weird about food, Connie's weird about tea, and has all sorts of flavours hoarded in cupboards. He once tried to mix tea and whisky once, with...disconcertingly nice results. They've decided to keep that for Hogsmanay, though, as a tradition.

Connie drops himself in the seat next to Jean, and says, "What were you up to yesterday?"

Jean stares for a second. Then he says, "Shut _up_."

"I haven't said anything."

"You know where I was yesterday."

"Do I?" He wiggles his eyebrows, and Jean has to swallow back his fear and nerves to roll his eyes. He'd been so willing to flirt with Eren yesterday, even just a little, even though he's scared to... Yesterday, he told Connie that it hadn't passed - but in that one meeting with Eren, it had passed.

"I'm going to throw you off a cliff."

"We live in a land-locked city."

"I'll throw you into the river."

"Did you know that the reason our city was actually established here is because this dude came to the river and was like, nice, and decided to build round it-"

"That is literally how all cities started. Also, I _do_  know that because they told us the story of the saint who founded it like ten million times in school?"

Connie grins. "Just checking." There's a pause, as Sasha hums whilst icing the cupcakes and swings her hips a little, and Connie decides to smear his fingertips across the lines in Jean's forehead. "Anyway, how was your chat with Eren yesterday? You look good."

"It was...good," Jean nods, curling his fingers round the edge of the table. "We, uh...talked about some stuff, he, uh, told me a-about his past, and stuff... I also, um, had some nice soup, a-and macaroons, and he convinced me to call you guys...which was fun..."

Connie's beaming, and Sasha chimes, "Sounds brilliant, baby!"

Holding his hand, and looking deeply into his eyes, Connie whisper-sings, "And they call it, puppy love..." Sasha giggles a little, but they both turn to Jean. "Is that..." Connie pauses. "How is that?"

Jean bites his lip, looks back down at the table. "Dunno," he mumbles. "I don't- I don't know. I still- I _still_  l-love Ma- _him_ \- but I... I do l-like Eren... I _do_  want to... But what if I... Like this, I'm... Who would even...put up with me? L-like this?"

Connie shifts his chair closer to Jean's, and wraps an arm round his shoulder, pressing his palm to Jean's cheek. He raises his eyebrows, sternly, and kisses Jean's nose in a very serious manner. He says, "Shut the fuck up, you dumb jobby." He pats Jean's cheek then pulls him closer, into an awkward hug that doesn't really work because they'd sitting side by side in different chairs. "Jean, no one's 'putting up' with you. We're just experiencing life together, and all its shit that it throws at us... This isn't your fault, Jean, we don't think so, our friends don't think so, Eren doesn't think so - it would be a fucking _honour_  to love you and be with you, alright, like if I wasn't straight and marrying Sasha I would marry you, because you are cool even if you are a major hipster, and you're a good runner so you can beat all the crowds at the Boxing Day sales, and you're obviously fucking brilliant at all that tech and art bullshit, and like, _I_ sometimes forget how to get the cheats bar up on Sims."

"It's the Control, Shift, and C buttons."

"Right!"

Jean stares helplessly at Connie for a moment, then buries his head in his friend's shoulder. Their positioning is bad, and Connie's quite a bit shorter than Jean, which makes it even worse, but they manage.

"I just-" Jean chokes out, feeling too emotional and overwhelmed by what Connie's said, "I just don't feel like I'm- _worth_  a-anything, any more, ever since I- I _killed_  him, Connie, it was m-my fault, _I-I_  got drunk and thought I could drive, _I_  got us in the crash, it was- and he was the only thing- he was, he was so _incredible_ , s-so _good_ , and I just- took that from the world, I _killed_  him and how can I- I can't _redeem_  myself, how can anyone else e-ever _want_  me?"

Connie rubs his back, and another hand, with longer fingers, grips the hand that was clutching the table still.

It smells of cinnamon.

"No one blames you, Jean," Sasha says from behind him, leaning forward so she's pressed against his back. She smells like home. A _good_  home. "Not anyone that matters, at least. Marco was...an incredible person, to know and to love, b-but...he _is_ gone now. And- blaming yourself won't help anyone, least of all yourself. Baby...your past doesn't define you. Your _mistakes_  don't define you, they just help you change. We _all_  learnt lessons from Marco's death, a-and even if he is gone now..." He thinks Sasha might be crying a little, too. "At least we knew him. And we'll see him again, y'know?"

Jean shakes his head.

"Look, baby, I don't believe in God either, but- everybody knows there's a party at the end of the world."

Connie chuckles. "Unbelievable, Sash," he murmurs. "Listen, Jean - even if you don't believe it, people _do_  love and care about you and want to be with you. It just so happens that Eren...seems to want to be with you. And it isn't really our place to get involved with you two, but- if you're stopping yourself from pursuing what you want because of what happened in your _past_ , if you're stopping yourself from pursuing happiness, then- we want to help you."

"I- really?"

"Really," Connie says.

"Really really," Sasha adds.

"...Thank you," he mumbles. "I-I really am glad to know you two. Even if... I mean, at least...you two think something of me... I do- I want to- I-I'll _try_ , it just...might take a while."

"That's fine, baby."

Connie pats his shoulder.

Jean budges in Connie's and Sasha's arms, signalling that he's ready to be let go of, and the three of them disentangle, and sit up properly. Jean sips his tea, to try and calm down, and snaffles a cupcake off the plate Sasha's put out instantly.

"I'm sorry for- that," he adds, after Sasha and Connie exchange looks. "I shouldn't- I know we're supposed to be talking about the...the wedding. I shouldn't've- put all my shit on you-"

"Baby," Sasha says, smiling, "what are friends for?"

Connie's got this dumb grin back on his face, and Jean takes a deep breath, and rolls his eyes.

"Whatever," he mutters, and lets them talk his face off about the wedding. Connie keeps making him tea, a different flavour each time, and Sasha practically force feeds him cupcakes, until they decide to make omelettes, then they end up in front of the TV, watching _Strictly Come Dancing_ and eating the sweets Jean got on the way here, even if Brucie's bant is shite and Claudia is the only presenter that matters.

Sasha also attempts to leave the house in her apron, and Jean ends up sighing and sitting in the corner of the bedroom, telling her what to wear, because Connie thinks she should go out in _only_  the apron and Jean is not having _any_  of that bullshit.

The pub is packed when the three of them get there, the usuals loitering outside smoking and arguing, and luckily Reiner and Bertl are inside already, guarding a booth for them all.

"Hello, boys!" Sasha croons, smiling at them and sliding into a seat. "You alright?"

Bertl nods; Reiner says, "Aye, I'm no bad, Sash. How it's with you?"

"I'm alright, love," she replies, fitting her head onto Connie's shoulder once he's next to her. "Weather's a bit shite, isn't it?"

Reiner nods emphatically, patting Jean on the shoulder when he passes to sit down. "Baltic, ain't it? Bertl drove us both, though, my baby's promised to not drink tonight." He smiles, leaning forward to Bertl and kissing his chin. Bertl goes pink, rolling his eyes, and waves him away.

"How are you, Jean?" Bertl asks.

Sasha's holding his hand beneath the table. He replies, "Well, considering I've spent all day with these idiots...bored out my skull, really."

Bertl smiles, and Reiner booms out a great laugh, and Connie says, "That's not what you were saying when we were watching _Strictly_!" Which of course starts an in-depth discussion of the latest episode, which Bertl and Reiner also watched - Reiner agrees about Brucie's shite patter, and is earnestly discussing Pixie Lott's technique versus Caroline Flack's versus Andy Murray's mum's, when another trio arrive.

"Hiya!" Armin calls out, looking lovely in smart trousers and a big padded coat. "Any room for us in there?"

Bertl squeezes closer to Connie, and Reiner closer to him, and Jean squashes against Sasha. It's Mikasa who comes and sits next to Jean, then Eren, then Armin to the other side.

As the others all greet each other, Jean stutters out, "H-hey, Mikasa... It's nice to s-see you again..." She is _such_  a stunner, she could probably be a model. Jean's struck a little speechless, in all honesty.

"Hello, Jean," she replies. "We didn't get much of a chance to talk last time, did we."

"No, uh, no, we didn't."

"Eren's a bit of an attention-hogger around people he likes."

Jean's cheeks go warm, and he squeezes Sasha's hand. He can feel her start paying attention, even if she doesn't physically turn to them. "Oh, uh... I... Th-that was months ago..."

"That's true," Mikasa sighs. "Did I tell you my job? I work at the local gym, I tend to do night classes - that's why I'm not often out with you all. I like to be in top physical condition."

Jean nods, raising his eyebrows and hoping he's not staring. "I... That's... No, uh, I can definitely see that."

She shifts a little closer, assessing him, and murmurs, "I think we should talk later."

She watches as his heart starts racing, sweat gathering on the back of his neck. What does that mean? That could mean _anything_ \- she could be telling him to back off, for all he knows, oh god... "U-uh," he trips over his words. "Th-that's, I-I, um, w-well-"

An arm is slung over Mikasa's shoulders. "Mikasa, don't scare the nice laddie," Eren says, smiling at Jean. "He just wants to have a drink."

"I wasn't scaring him," Mikasa mutters. "I was being nice."

Eren raises his eyebrows at Jean.

"...You scared me a little."

Mikasa doesn't smile, but her features go a little softer. "I didn't mean to," she says sincerely. "I would honestly like to get to know you better, Jean."

"Y-yeah, alright."

She nods, and that concludes their conversation. Eren leans back, however, and pokes at his shoulder behind her.

"Aright, Jean?"

"Yeah. Yourself?"

"Doing great, cheers for asking. You ready for a drink?"

"Don't you think we should wait for Ymir and Christa to show up first? And Annie?"

"Annie's here already, idiot." Eren nods towards the bar, where he realises Annie is in fact _working_ , and nods when she meets his eyes.

"Oh. Well, Ymir and Christa-"

Eren starts laughing as the two ladies themselves appear at the table.

"What about us, Jean-bo?" Ymir asks, a hand on her hip.

Jean freezes, staring at her with wide eyes, and she shifts her gaze to the side and scowls, before saying, "I'm sorry."

Christa's smiling, just a little, and Jean can't helping replying, "I'm sorry?"

"I _said_ , I'm sorry!" Ymir grouches. "I was a bitch, and unsupportive, and rude, and- I apologise? Okay? There. I'll pay for your fucking drinks, you bastard."

Jean bites back a smile, and says, "I'm sorry too... For...throwing you out."

Ymir shrugs. "That's life, ain't it."

"...Sure."

"Now," Christa interrupts, "what were you saying?"

"...I was just telling him we should wait for yous to arrive before drinks, but... Uh, you're, um, already here...so...?"

Christa laughs, and says, "We'll go up for drinks, then - what you liking today?"

Jea shrugs, and lets everyone else order first. A round of pints for them all but Mikasa and Bertl, it seems, and Jean nods, even though he thinks beer tastes shite. Ymir and Christa go up to the bar, making a very obvious show that they're in a relationship when some of the blokes start checking them out - Ymir wraps an arm tight round Christa and Christa smirks when she touches Ymir's butt - and chatter with Annie while their drinks are served. They all squeeze together a bit more so the girls can fit in with them, and Reiner exclaims, "A toast - to friendship, and to boyfriends willing to not drink so they can drive you home!"

Everyone laughs, lifts their pint, and knocks it against everyone else's in the centre before pouring it back. Jean joins in, and it feels so weirdly, so two-years-ago _normal_ , and he rubs his thumb across Sasha's hand before letting go.

The first discussion is about _Strictly_ , which everyone has been watching, apparently, then _Apprentice_ , which Jean _hasn't_  been watching but still remembers the way Lord Sugar says, "You're fired," with the pointy finger, so at least he's able to join in on that. Then they start talking about Halloween very excitedly, and Jean gets swept up in the ridiculous schemes they've decided.

"I've already found my outfit!" Reiner says, chugging back more beer. "It was a bit difficult, looking for shit in the right size, but I had a look around online and found the right bits and pieces to be Velma. Oi, Connie, you found a Scooby costume yet?"

"Yeah I have!" Connie replies. "Cost me a good few quid, but I reckon it's worth it."

"Aye it is," Reiner says, grinning. "'Specially if Jean-bo's going to join in, right?"

Jean nods. "It's going to look a bit weird," he points out, "to all the kids who come round to their flat and there's only three of us and then them." He thumbs at Eren, Mikasa, and Armin, who are explaining their decision to go as the Harry Potter golden trio to Ymir, who'd nodding seriously.

Reiner sighs, and looks to the side. "I know," he says, "I know. But we all make sacrifices for art."

Jean looks out the corner of his eyes to Sasha, who's nodding seriously, then to Connie, who's gazing at Reiner with loving eyes, and rolls his own. He is surrounded by _idiots_.

He's missed this.

"Hey, Jean, you better start shopping though - who are you again, Freddie or Shaggy?"

"Be Shaggy!" Connie jumps in. "It makes sense 'cause we're best friends!"

"No, be Freddie," Sasha cries, "it makes sense 'cause _we're_  best friends!"

"Doesn't Freddie wear some weird handkerchief thing?" he asks. Sasha nods uncertainly, and Jean says, "I'll be Shaggy."

"Ugh, you lazy shyster, you," Sasha scoffs. "Can't rely on you for anything."

"Hear that, Bertl? You're going to be Freddie for Halloween!" Reiner calls to Bertl, who nods and continues to listen to Eren, who's now relaying the process he will go through to become Harry Potter on Halloween.

Ymir eventually calls for more drinks - her, Eren, and Reiner all get a pint; Connie demands whisky; Sasha and Christa ask for wine; and Armin and Jean go for G&T's, to be classy. Ymir goes up again, talks to Annie, gets their drinks, and returns. By the end of his second drink, Jean's feeling a little looser, smiling easier and laughing harder at the dumb jobes and ridiculous banter of their table. It's getting rowdy in the bar, with all sorts of blokes and lassies coming in, ordering drinks and complaining to the bartenders. Beside him, Mikasa eventually tugs at Jean's wrist, and says, "Outside?"

He nudges Sasha to let her know, then Eren and Christa shift out the booth so him and Mikasa can clamber out, and they go outside, shivering at how fucking baltic it is.

It's been a good night, a lovely night - but Jean's throat is scratching with an itch he was hoping to forget.

He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, breathes easier around puffs of smoke. Mikasa watches, saying nothing. People pass them by, girls in their short dresses and high heels and boys in jeans and shiny shoes, all laughing, hooting, shouting as they wander along, all dying for a drink or a pull or a good laugh.

"So," he says, after his cigarette is done and he pulls out another. He feels braver - drunker - that before. "What is it?"

"About Eren," she states, crossing her arms and staring at him. "He likes you a lot, you know." She quirks her eyebrows.

Jean shuts his eyes and inhales smoke. "And?" he breathes.

"And you're reluctant - I know, I see, I understand why," she says. "But...Eren is serious. About you. And taking it slow. I don't know how much he's told you, but...I know he's said some things about his past. He probably- didn't tell you the extent."

"He said some things about trying to kill himself."

Mikasa actually winces, and Jean's eyes go wide. "Yeah," she says, quieter. "I don't think you realise, though - he only stopped feeling that way about two years ago. And still, even now...he has his bad days."

"...Then how...could we possibly be good for each other?"

"He's survived, and he's happy, and he wants you to be happy, too." Mikasa bites her lips, looks away, then looks back. "Look, I don't...want to intrude, but he's basically my brother, and I... I don't want him to lose his chance of happiness just because you're...stuck in a rut, so to speak." Jean takes a breath, takes a drag, and nods. "I don't want to make assumptions, and I can't relate to what you're going through because I've... Anyway. I used to love Annie, back when we were sixteen, seventeen...?" Jean stares, unaware Mikasa even _knew_  Annie. "Yeah. She used to live in Shinganshina with us, but she left to go to uni here. We never really broke up, but...we drifted... I fell in love with Armin, and...it felt wrong, like I was betraying her. But the truth was that we simply had moved on."

Jean turns away again.

"Do you see, Jean? It's not... It's nowhere as awful as what happened to you. I understand that. But just because you still love him, just because he's gone, it doesn't mean you can't continue living your life. This isn't... This doesn't have to be about Eren, you know. In general. Don't let what happened to _him_ , and to you, prevent you from moving on and living your life." She places a hand carefully on his shoulder, waiting until he looks at her before she speaks again. "Do you understand? Can you do that?"

He stares for a long time. He says, "I can try."

The corners of her mouth turn up, and she squeezes his shoulder before letting go and whispering, "Thank you."

They stay outside till Jean's finished his third cigarette, and though Eren frowns when Jean crams in next to him, smelling of smoke, it doesn't last long. They order another round, and another, until they're too bevved up to have logical conversation and they all end up laughing and arguing about the stupidest of things.

By the end of the night, Jean's had at least seven arguments with Eren, ranging from differing opinions on Andy Murray's mum's dancing on _Strictly_  to the precise colour of beer Eren's drinking, but he still gets a goodbye kiss on his cheek and he doesn't immediately freak out, doesn't clench his fingers or freeze up in fear, only remembers what Eren and Sasha and Connie and Mikasa all told him, and is able to give a goodbye kiss back.

He ends up in Consash's house, after realising he couldn't be fucked walking back home and didn't want to wait at the taxi rank for a cab - Sasha sings old love songs as she gets blankets and a pillow for him, kissing his nose goodnight before wandering off to bed. Connie mutters some drunken shite in his ear and attempts to bite his cheek, then heavily pats his forehead before dragging himself to bed.

He falls asleep smiling, and he dreams of nothing, and when he wakes it's soft and quiet and Jean feels different, like something important inside him has been sewn back together, like his soul isn't slipping through all the cracks in his body anymore.

It feels like happiness. It feels like _healing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anything confuses u, don't hesitate to ask!! and like...i'm a little worried abt the dodgy pacing of it and character development in it, if it's rushed etc, or prances about a bit... some clarification would be nice, but as always, don't feel obliged <3 hope u all had wonderful christmases/holidays and got what u asked for <3 have a wonderful new years (hogsmanay!) <3 i'm planning to watch lotr and play drinking games with a few friends, what better way to welcome 2015 amirite ^3^

**Author's Note:**

> bloosh. i'm at [tumboblr](http://tyrellis.tumblr.com) and [tumbler](http://mlp-michaeljones.tumblr.com) ^^


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